


Seekers of Love

by thatsarockfact55



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Black Hermione Granger, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cedric Diggory sure isn't cis, Cedric Lives, Cho Chang is fabulous and Jewish and a total dork, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter is Half South Indian and Half White (specifically his dad's family is from Kerala), Harry Potter is a queer baby deer, Lots of queer characters, Multi, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, except Cedric Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsarockfact55/pseuds/thatsarockfact55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry wakes up to find names tattooed on his wrists. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Surprise, A Confession, and A Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fic that's being posted to AO3 and the Internet at large! I'm super excited to share this with y'all. So yeah, this is a Harry/Cho/Cedric Soulmate AU because who doesn't like soulmate AUs? It starts at the Goblet of Fire and goes from there. Cedric doesn't die. The fic loosely follows canon. If you enjoy it and want to post a comment or kudos or whatever, then I would greatly appreciate it. Constructive criticism is also super cool and sorely needed. I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters, J.K. Rowling does. 
> 
> Feel free to say hi on tumblr, my url is toomanyfeelings5. 
> 
> Thanks!

ONE

            Harry James Potter wasn’t one to panic easily, but he’d been jolted awake in the middle of the night by a burning sensation on the underside of his wrists, right on his pulse points. He’d been dreaming a rather pleasant dream too, and he couldn’t remember much more than hands holding his and warm sunlight, but still, any dream was better without Voldemort.

            “Bugger,” Harry hissed through his teeth, trying not to wake Ron. His wrists weren’t burning so much as throbbing now; the pain was a deep ache that settled in his bones. Harry rocked back and forth as the bedsprings squeaked and the moonlight filtered through the window in silvery wisps.

            What was this, some kind of extra Voldemort honing signal?

            No, he decided. Whenever his scar hurt it felt more like getting stabbed in the forehead; this was something else.

            He gritted his teeth and tried to wait the pain out, focusing on the sound of his heartbeat and breathing in through his nose, trying to remember the imprint of safety the dream had left in his mind.

            The pain faded after who-knows-how-long. Harry gingerly brushed his wrists with his finger- tips, and sighed in relief when his they didn’t hurt at all. The moonlight was a soft, comforting glow, almost like an embrace. But wait a minute—Harry squinted--

            There was writing on his wrists.

            With shaking hands, he reached for his glasses, and after almost knocking over a roll of crumpled parchment, Harry put his smudged glasses on and looked tentatively at the writing.

            On his left wrist, in neat, blocky print, read _Cho Chang 张秋._

On his right wrist, in bold script, read _Cedric Diggory._

            “Fuck,” Harry whispered, and, miraculously, went back to sleep in a matter of seconds.

TWO

            “Harry, are you quite alright? You look a bit pale.”

            Harry jumped, nearly causing his eggs to slide off his plate. “What? Oh, no, I feel fine.”

            Hermione frowned. “Are you sure? Does your scar hurt? Is it that Triwizard Tournament nonsense everyone keeps talking about? You can’t enter your name, you’re too young. Maybe you—“

            “Come off it, Harry isn’t stupid enough to enter his name into that goblet. Harry, mate, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! What’s up?”

            The two of them sat across from him, fixing their friend with curious, concerned gazes.

            Harry wanted to hide under the table and never come back. “Nothing’s wrong, alright? It’s just—well—“

            “Yes?”

            Harry sighed. “It’s something I’ve got to tell you in private.”

            Ron and Hermione exchanged bemused glances. “Alright,” Ron said, still frowning, while Hermione said rather primly, “Let’s talk after class.”

            The day was a blur of Snape glaring a hole into the back of his neck, Mcgonagall nearly turning him into a goat because he hadn’t been paying attention, Professor Moody shouting, _“Constant vigilance!”_ and Trewlawny murmuring, in her breathy voice, “Be cautious of books this week, my dear; I sense danger lurking in their pages.”

            It was just—he thought the names on his wrist had been part of the dream. He kept pulling his robe sleeves up just to make sure the names were there at all. Sure enough, every time he checked, they remained.

            Harry tried very hard not to panic, because he knew what this was, what those names had to mean, but still—

            “Harry? Harry, let’s get you to the common room, you look like you’re gonna be sick!”

            Ron helped him carry his things while Hermione stayed behind for “a quick chat with Flitwick, honestly!”

            The common room was mostly empty; Seamus and Dean shuffled out quickly, hair askew, exchanging guilty glances, and Angelina Johnson strode off to find Katie Bell, who had been absent from the previous Quidditch practice. Harry found himself sitting in his favorite armchair while Ron plopped next to him. “So,” Ron asked, “What’s on your mind? It’s not—it’s not You-Know-Who again, is it?”

            “No,” Harry answered, throat dry, “Nothing like that. It’s—er. Something else.”

            Ron snorted. “Well, out with it then. It can’t be that scary if it isn’t You-Know-Who deciding to plonk himself into your dreams, can it?”

            Harry swallowed and stared at his shoes. “Yeah. Last night I had this dream, and it wasn’t Voldemort, it was nice actually, and I woke up and I think—I think I know who my soulmates are.”

            _“What_?” Ron whisper-shouted, mouth agape, “Are you sure? Merlin’s beard! I mean, I know everyone finds out about that stuff in different ways, but—wow. Who is it?”

            “Ronald Weasely, stop asking Harry questions he might not want to answer.” Harry nearly flew out of his seat as Hermione strode towards them, eyebrows raised imperiously. Her hair was in a frizzy bun, and ink splotches were splattered on her dark skin; she was in no mood to joke. “Look,” she said brusquely, sitting in the armchair on Harry’s other side, “Harry doesn’t want to talk about it, look at his face. We should just leave him be—“

            “No,” Harry blurted out, voice cracking, “Stop, I—I want to talk about it. I don’t know much about this stuff, it’s not like Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon would talk to me about these things. Why did this happen, how did this happen, and why do I have _two soulmates_? That doesn’t happen often, does it?”

            Ron stood up, shaking his head in disbelief. “I need tea for this, be back in a mo.”

            Hermione tapped her quill against her armrest. “From what I’ve read, discovering one’s soulmate isn’t an exact science, and everyone experiences their discovery differently. Some people are born knowing, others have a tally-mark system, and a few don’t see color until they see their soulmate. But I’ve never read about someone having more than two soulmates who aren’t related to them.”

            Harry hung his head, feeling his insides churn as the fire from the hearth made him sweat even more. “Is this a mistake?”

            Hermione looked at him pityingly. “Oh, don’t be silly, Harry! This isn’t a mistake, this is just—well—“ she trailed off as Ron nearly tripped towards them, careful not to spill his tea as he finally sank into his armchair.

            Harry groaned. “Then what is this?”

            Ron sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Do you know them at all? Can you talk to them, at least? That’s what I’d do, just to clear things up, y’know?”

            Harry shook his head. “I mean, I know who they are, but I’ve never even talked to them before. At least, not really.”

            Hermione patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry Harry, we’ll help you with this. Would you mind if you told us their names? It’s perfectly alright if you don’t, but it might be useful—“

            “Cedric and Cho.”

            Ron almost spewed his tea. “You can’t mean—?”

            “Yes.”

            Hermione tried her level best not to look flustered as she accidentally got quill-ink on her cheek. “Obviously Harry’s telling the truth, Ron—“

            “So Cho and Cedric are apparently my soulmates, yeah,” Harry finished, determined to plow ahead.

            The three of them sat in silence as the fire crackled merrily, oblivious to their plight.

            Finally, Ron burst out, “I’ve got it! You can write to Sirius! I bet he knows something about this.”

            Hermione frowned. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea, Ron. Sirius has been in Azkaban for the past twelve years, I think he’s had other matters to attend to.”

            Harry sighed in defeat. “Yeah, I dunno if he’d be able to help. Besides, I don’t want to bother him with stuff like this, it’s not like this is life and death. I think I’ll just go to the library and look it up.”

            Hermione stared at him as if he’d just said Snape was a competent teacher. “Harry, there aren’t any books about having two soulmates, believe me, I’d know—“

            Harry shook his head, fear fizzing into an idea. “That’s why I’m gonna break into the Restricted Section. Tonight.”

            Hermione threw up her hands. “No, Harry, absolutely not! Madam Pince will take off so many points—“

            Ron smirked. “Hermione, Harry has his invisibility cloak, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

            Hermione blushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh. Right.”

            Harry nodded, resolute. “It’s settled then, I’ll go tonight.”

            “D’you want us to go with you?”

            “We could help you look if you’d like.”

            Harry looked at his friends’ eager faces and felt an immense rush of gratitude. “Thanks, but I think I’ll go alone on this one. It’s, uh, really personal, yeah?”

            “Oh, yeah,” Ron said in a rush, “No problem. Good luck, mate.”

            Hermione played with a loose curl and bit her lip. “Yes, and please, please be careful!”

            After a short-lived game of wizard chess (Ron kept trying to tell Hermione and Harry where to put their pieces, and it ended when a vicious knight gleefully slayed Hermione’s king after Harry’s chess pieces fled from the board), all three of them went to supper. Harry and Ron refused to think about the homework they had to do over the weekend while Hermione had already completed half of it; it was just another Friday at Hogwarts. Harry had almost forgotten about the names on his wrists.

            But then night arrived, with its winking stars and cold draft, and Harry carefully draped his father’s cloak over his head.

            It was time to get to the bottom of this.

THREE

            The library seemed to have a mind of its own; every so often there would be a creak, or groan, or hiss, like Madam Pince lived underneath the floorboards.

            Harry wandered through the maze of books, passing row upon row, until he reached the Restricted Section’s locked, rusted entrance. He whispered, “ _Alohamora,”_ and tried his best not to make a sound.

            The air was still and musty, and there was barely any candlelight to illuminate the books and scrolls and the occasional jar filled with dark, smoking sludge. Muffled voices were suffocated by their book’s pages, and the air had gotten to be dank and much colder; it was like being in Potions, except illegal.

            Harry barely breathed as he lit his wand, searching for something, anything, that would help him. He saw everything from _The Dark Arts Personified_ to _Hogwarts: Haven or Hellhole?_ but nothing about soulmates. Harry suppressed a sigh; was there really nothing that could help him?

            He rounded a corner dejectedly, head down, when he smacked into something solid.

            “Ow!”

            The voice rang through the stacks of books, and Harry glanced up in shock. Of all the people to run into—

            Another voiced called out: “Cho, is that you?”

            Harry yanked the cloak off his head and pulled it around his shoulders, because Cho Chang was pointing her wand straight at him. Her dark eyes widened. “Harry?”

            Cedric Diggory appeared behind Cho seconds later, alarm shifting into surprise. “Oh. Hello, Cho, hello, Harry. Nice cloak.”

            They stared at one another.

            Harry had never wanted to run away so much in his entire life, he was sure of it.

            Cho coughed. “Well, um. Might I ask what you two are doing here?”

            Harry couldn’t be certain under the dim light, but he could have sworn Cedric was blushing. “I’m here for—uh—a House dare.”

            Harry felt his ears redden. “And I’m here because… I need to get something for Hagrid.”

            Cho looked at them in askance. After a few more moments of unbearable, trembling silence, she asked, “So neither of you are here because of these?” She rolled up her sleeves, and on each of her forearms—Harry felt a terrifying jolt of recognition—were Harry and Cedric’s names, in their own handwriting.

            Cedric rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Sorry, Cho, Harry. I shouldn’t have lied. I’ve got your names, too. Cho, your name is on my right shoulder, and Harry, yours is on my left. I just got them last night, didn’t know what to think of it.”

            Harry nodded, forcing his feet to remain rooted in place. “Yeah, same here.” He turned his wrists over, and both of them looked at their names with barely concealed wonder.

            Harry held his hand behind his back and willed his voice not to crack. “So, um, how’d you two get in here, anyway?”

            Cho started. “Oh! Well, it was easy really, I just talked to the Gray Lady; she has unlimited access to the library, plus I know some useful spells in case anyone spotted me.”

            They both stared questioningly at Cedric, the model student, and waited. Cedric smiled awkwardly. “Let’s just say Madam Pince owes me a favor.”

            “What favor?” Cho asked, sounding genuinely curious. Harry tried to imagine Madam Pince oweing a student anything and came up short. Cedric sighed and ran a hand through his wavy dark hair; Harry felt his face warm. “Well, since you two are, you know……I guess I can tell you. But don’t tell anyone else, yeah?” Cho and Harry nodded vigorously. “I was in the library, and I didn’t even notice how late it had gotten because I had a Potions exam the next day, and, er….I accidentally saw Madam Pince reading a book called _The Forbidden Chamber of Love._ ”

            Harry stared.

            Cho started to giggle, and Harry couldn’t help but notice now nice it sounded. “Did you-- ? Did you catch Madam Pince reading _adult romance novels_?”

            Cedric hung his head in shame, though a grin twitched across his face.

            Harry snickered, he couldn’t help it: Madam Pince, of all people.

            All three of them started laughing as quietly as possible, high-strung with adrenaline and nerves; Cho covered her mouth, Cedric’s shoulders shook, and Harry muffled his laugh with the cloak.

            After a while, Cho managed, “Ok, so. What exactly are we going to do about this…thing?” She gestured around them, and Harry suddenly noticed how close they had all gotten; Cho’s long black hair, streaked with brown, gleamed in the candlelight, cascading down her back like a waterfall on a summer night, and Cedric’s eyes didn’t look like the gray on a cloudy day, but rather the gray on a windy autumn afternoon, the kind that had strands of sunlight peeking through the clouds.

            “So,” Cho began, and Harry snapped out of his thoughts, “What are we going to do about this?” Her voice squeaked at the end; Harry felt a strange sense of comfort knowing that he wasn’t the only one unsure about this.

            Cedric was quick to answer quietly but firmly. “We don’t have to do anything that we don’t want to do. Since we don’t know each other all that well, and we’re all in different years…I think it’s best that we respect each other’s boundaries and, uh, not engage in any….romantic activities.”

            “Yes,” Harry blurted out, “I think that would work. No offense to either of you, but, um, I’m not sure what to think about any of this, and I haven’t found anything about anyone having two…you know.”

            Cho frowned, tapping her chin absentmindedly. “I haven’t either, but we can’t just ignore this, can we? I agree that we don’t have to spend every waking moment with each other, and I definitely think we should define this however we want to, but I don’t see the sense in ignoring each other either. We’re soulmates, and whatever that entails, it means that we’re connected somehow. For me, it’s not logical to pretend that this didn’t happen. So I think we should try to get to know each other, on a strictly platonic basis.”

            Cedric nodded, shoulders relaxing just a bit. “Yeah, I think I like that idea. There’s no pressure to figure out whatever this is, and we do it on our own terms. I certainly don’t dislike either of you; I’d be honored to get to know you both. Harry, what do you think?”

            Harry couldn’t believe that they looked at him like they really wanted to know his opinion, like he wasn’t a stranger, like he wasn’t the Boy Who Lived. “Er….yeah, that sounds alright. But I think I need some time to think, y’know?”

            They both nodded. “Yes, of course,” Cedric answered, smiling slightly. “I think we all do. So let’s just take this one step at a time, yeah?”

            Cho hummed in agreement. “Sounds fine to me.”

            All three of them looked in different directions as the seconds crawled by. One of the books was getting particularly mouthy, and Harry almost sneezed as dust floated down from the high shelves.

            “I suppose this is good night then?” Cedric asked blusteringly, frowning and smiling at the same time.

            “Yes,” Cho said in a rush, “Good night, Cedric and Harry!”

            Harry yanked the cloak over his head. “G’night!”

            He practically sprinted out of the library, making sure not to run into either of them, and by the time he got back to his bed, Ron was already asleep.

            As he burrowed under covers, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Cedric and Cho had been in his dream, and were just as scared as he was.


	2. An Alliance, Some Advice, and A Plan

FOUR

            Harry thought he was going to be sick; he could feel his breakfast migrating upwards as he hunched over the grimy bathroom sink.

            How could his name have come out of that goblet? It was age-proof, impossible to fool, but he had heard everyone’s whispers trailing behind him, had seen Ron look away, had felt glares prickle his neck and his heart pound in his ears—

            This year was turning out to be rather eventful.

            Harry stared down at into the sink’s murky depths and tried not to think about the fact that he had to compete and potentially die in a tournament designed for 6th and 7th years.

            “Harry?”

            He forced himself to look up. They hadn’t really talked much after the library incident besides the occasional awkward nod in between classes, but now Cedric was here, too close for comfort.

            Harry clenched his hands into fists and bit back a scream. “What do you want?”

            Cedric backed away, holding his hands up; he looked like one of Dudley’s dogs right before they had gotten sent back to the pound. “Sorry, I just—I wanted to see if you were alright.”

            Harrry scoffed. “Well, Rita Skeeter said my eyes are swimming with the ghosts of my past, everyone thinks I put my name in that bloody goblet, and I might not even make it through the first bloody task because, surprise, I’m not—I don’t know how to do any of this!”

            Cedric sighed as he slowly sat down on the tiled floor, leaning back against the wall, legs crossed. The air was heavy and damp, so his hair got stuck to his forehead. “Yeah, that sounds about right. You know what Skeeter told me? She said—“ and Cedric pitched his voice to a nasally simper— “‘Oh, of course you’re the _real_ Hogwarts Champion, aren’t you? Must be the looks that got you in.’” He shook his head and blew a strand of hair off his face, slightly bushy eyebrows scrunched together. “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, or why anyone would want to put your name in, but—“

            “Wait, you believe me?”

            Cedric blinked in confusion. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

            “But—“ Harry struggled to find the words, anger dissipating into shock—“But why? Everyone else says—“

            “I don’t care what everyone else says, I believe you. Besides, it’s impossible for you to have done this by yourself, what with the age limit and everything, and I don’t know why you would want to be one of the Triwizard Champions; you don’t strike me as the type of person who would want this.”

            Harry nodded and sat across from Cedric, head bumping against the bottom of the sink. “Thanks,” he mumbled begrudgingly. “For believing me.”

            Cedric smiled tentatively. “Of course.”

            Harry felt curiosity nag at his gut. “Why,” he started, “why did _you_ put your name in?”

            Cedric paused, fingers tapping on his pant leg absentmindedly as he thought about it. “Huh,” he murmured, “Well, I suppose it’s because I want to challenge myself. I want to see how much I’ve improved since first year. I want to make mum and dad proud. And I want to bring Hufflepuff House some honor; we don’t get talked about much, but we’re a great House. And just once, I want the rest of the world to see that too.”

            Harry ducked his head, guilt squirming in his chest; he’d never really given a thought to Hufflepuff before.

            Cedric shrugged in response. “’S’alright, you’re not the only one who doesn’t really care about the other houses. Big mistake, I think, but that’s what happens when you divide eleven-year olds into different groups. Anyway,” he grunted, standing up stiffly, “I should be going, my housemates are probably wondering where I am. You sure you’re alright?”

            Harry rolled his eyes as he stood up as well, shaking his sleeping left foot. “Yes, I’m fine.”

            Cedric smirked in an unfairly attractive way. “Alright then. Hey, if you, uh, really need help with anything for the tasks, I’m free any time. I figure since we’re both Hogwarts Champions, we might as well work together, yeah?”

            Harry frowned. “Wouldn’t that be cheating?”

            Cedric grimaced, like the thought of cheating was physically painful. “Er, no, not really; it’s not fair that you have to compete, is it? Besides, it’ll only be for when we’re really stuck.”

            Harry nodded slowly; he didn’t like the idea of having to ask for anyone’s help, but Cedric was nothing if not convincing. “Ok.”

            Cedric’s grin was too bright for the dingy bathroom. “Then it’s settled. See you around, Harry.”

            “Bye, Cedric.”

FIVE

            A lot of the time, Harry forgot that he had soulmates; the first task was only getting closer, and all of his dreams ended in fire and dragon shrieks.

           He’d only be reminded when _Potter Stinks_ supporters would leer at him and ask, “Potter’s too much of a weakling to have a soulmate!”

           Harry would almost always snap, “I have a soulmate! Two, in fact!” but stop himself just in time. They had all agreed not to tell anyone but their closest friends; it wouldn’t be right to Cho and Cedric, and it would probably cause Harry even more trouble if anyone else knew. He shuddered picturing the articles Rita Skeeter would write about _that._

           It was best kept a secret, especially since Harry had tipped Cedric off about the dragons; it would only make people hate him more.

           He was walking along a corridor on the way to Charms when one of those noxious badges got way too close to his face. Harry groaned internally as Malfoy sneered at him, blocking his way. “What d’you want, Malfoy? I’m a bit busy for your bollocks today.”

          The other boy recoiled, badge turning a putrid shade of green. “Where’s Weasel and Mudblood Granger, huh? Not here to build a shrine to you today, are they?”

          Harry’s wand sent sparks up his arm and he spit out, “Don’t call them that!”

          Malfoy smirked in triumph. “Still, Potter. No one’s here to protect you—“

          “I’ve faced pixies scarier than you—“

          “Oh be quiet, the both of you!”

          Harry and Malfoy jumped as Cho Chang strode toward them, hair in a messy ponytail, eyes flashing, looking harried as she snapped, “Get out of my way, Draco. I need to ask Harry something important.”

            Malfoy opened his mouth to retort but stopped short when he saw the angry tears smudging the makeup on Cho’s face. “This isn’t over, Potter,” he muttered, stalking past him mutinously.

            Cho turned to Harry, smoothing her hair and breathing deeply, wiping her eyes quickly; her makeup looked a bit smeared, but she was undeterred. “Harry, do you have a minute?”

            “Er,” Harry said, because he was a bit busy staring at her loose strands of hair that were tucked behind her ears, “I’m actually about to head to class, sorry.”

            Cho sighed exasperatedly. “Ah, Ok then. I do need to talk to you though, would you mind meeting me somewhere after class?”

            Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh, uh, sure.”

            “Great! I’ll meet you outside of—what, Charms? Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

            Harry barely had time to respond as she hurried away, leaving the scent of flowery shampoo in her wake.

            Charms came and went; Hermione had caught a cold, and consequently sneezed all throughout class while still trying to answer all of the questions, and Ron sat on the other end of the classroom, refusing to look at them. Harry tried to ignore him too.

            Class ended too quickly, and Hermione bolted off to find some tissues while Ron sulked at his desk. Harry shuffled out the door prepared himself to talk to Cho.

            He waited, stomach fluttering, for about ten minutes before Cho showed up, hair looking even messier than before, barely in its bun; it seemed like she was having a rough day too. But she still smiled softly when she saw him, and her small blue earrings twinkled in the light. “Sorry I’m late Harry, some friend trouble just came up and I had to help her find her tortoise—anyway, the thing I wanted to ask you is—do you feel prepared for the first task?”

            Harry blinked. “Oh. Uh, well, you know, I’m trying, with, er, spells—“

            Cho snorted. “Listen, I just wanted to maybe help you out, in case you needed it. Personally, I’d go to Professor Moody if I were you; he seems to know a lot about getting out of dangerous situations.”

            Harry was surprised; he’d never even considered asking Moody. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Uh, thanks.”

            Cho shrugged. “No problem. It’s been a long day of classes and lost tortises, but hey, you’ve got the tournament and everything, that sounds really tough. It’s a shame there isn’t more Quidditch this year because of it; why inter-school pissing contests now, you know?”

           “Yeah,” Harry agreed, laugh escaping out of his throat, “I miss the matches already.”

            Cho grinned after a brief yawn. “Me too. We could always play informally if it becomes too unbearable. In the meantime I’ll be keeping up with the Tornados; I think they’ll have a good run this year, their lineup is really strong.”

           Harry nodded, not sure what to say; he wasn’t able to keep up with professional teams, and only knew about the Chudley Cannons and the Hollywood Harpies from Ron and Ginny.

           Cho’s grin slipped away and picked at her robes as the silence stretched its legs. “I, er, I’ll be rooting for you and Cedric when the time comes. And I’ve asked everyone to stop wearing those silly badges; it’s petty even for Hogwarts.”

            Harry laughed too loudly this time. “Ha, yeah, they’re really…..dumb. Thank you for the support. You don’t have to; just because we’re—you know—doesn’t mean you have to help or anything—“

            “Please, I want a Hogwarts Champion just as much as anyone. Besides, you seem like a, um, a nice person. So yeah, if you need any, like, resources or anything, Ravenclaw has a mini-library that has loads of obscure stuff in it, it saved me when I had to study goblin rebellions for History of Magic—anyway, I’m going to stop talking now. You know what I mean.”

            Harry rubbed the back of his neck as Cho turned bright red. “It’s alright. Thanks, Cho. I’ll keep that in mind.”

            She left hurriedly, shouting a quick, “Be seeing you!” as she went off to do work.

            Harry still smelled her shampoo when he got back to the common room; it was a sweet scent, and it gave him an odd sense of comfort; Ron might not be on his side, but maybe with Cho and Cedric, he had found people who would support him.

            For the first time, Harry felt that having soulmates maybe wasn’t the worst thing to have.

SIX

            Looking back, the dragon had been sort of like a one-on-one Quidditch match, albeit one with a lot more teeth and the imminent threat of being burned alive, but it had the same kind of joyous, fierce adrenaline rush. It had been almost fun.

            Mostly, Harry was just glad that Ron had come around, and that him and Hermione rarely bickered about it.

            Except now he had a golden, screeching egg to worry about on top of increasing nightmares about green flashes of light and old houses on hills and all of the schoolwork his teachers insisted on giving him.

            It was tough being fourteen.

            No matter what he did to that egg, it would scream and scream and scream; everyone around him had gotten headaches just by being near it, and his own head wouldn’t stop pounding for hours.

            Hermione scoured the library for clues while Ron insulted the egg in every way he knew how. Harry laughed every time.

            Still, the egg problem was starting to worry him, so Harry found himself outside in the courtyard, listening to the leaves skitter across the grass and the wind breathing through the trees and definitely not loud shrieks that hurt his ears. Maybe he’d even try to find Cho or Cedric—

            “Harry!”

            Oh. Harry wasn’t prepared to see Cedric strolling toward him, smile revealing perfect teeth, sun hitting his cheekbones, and—were those _freckles_ on his nose-- ?

            “Hey, Cedric.”

            It was getting less strange to see him and Cho now; sure, they didn’t spend time together, exactly, but it felt less odd to wave at each other in the hallways, and Harry felt his smiles and “Hellos,” becoming more genuine.

            Up close, Harry could see little wilting flowers and leaf-bits tangled in Cedric’s wavy hair, and felt his ears redden. Was this what it meant to have soulmates? Did they just look attractive _all the time_?

            “Ok, so, Harry, just got back from a talk with Sprout, but I thought I’d repay you for the dragons, yeah?”

            Harry shook his head, feeling his gut lurch because Cedric wouldn’t stop looking at him. “No, it’s fine, there’s no need—“

            Cedric waved his hand. “Oh stop. Come closer, I don’t want anyone else to hear.”

            Harry swallowed and tried to breathe as he inched closer, very aware of Cedric’s robes brushing against his and how little patches of stubble lined his jaw.

            The older boy coughed a bit before lowering his head and muttering, “Take a bath.”

            Harry blinked. “Excuse me?”

            Cedric shifted his feet. “Look, I can’t just _tell you_ , I’m not so good at—at explaining these things—just take a bath, alright? Prefects’ bathroom, at night.”

            Harry stared at Cedric’s broad shoulder and forced himself not to think about how his name was written on it. “Er….ok then.” 

            Cedric backed away so quickly he almost tripped; a few daisy petals fluttered out of his hair. “Yeah, so, um, that’s it. Unless you’d like to, er, hang out or something?”

            Harry felt his face burn. “Thanks, but I’ve got work to do, plus I apparently have to break into the prefects’ bathroom. At night. But I’m free on the weekend, I guess?”

            Cedric nodded rapidly, eyes lighting up. “Good, good! I’ll ask Cho and see if she’s available. We could just…go to Hogsmeade or something, for a pop-in, you know, maybe get some things from Honeyduke’s. I’ve been meaning to check out the Shrieking Shack anyway, it could use some cleaning up.”

            Harry frowned and looked at the pile of leaves to the left. “So, this isn’t a date or anything, right….?”

            “No!” Cedric almost shouted, deep voice cracking, “No, of course not! Merlin’s beard that would be—no, that wouldn’t be right. And it would require scheduling, and planning, and a load of other things—no. We’ll all go as friends. Is that ok?”

            Harry let out the fear-filled breath he’d been holding. “Oh, good. Yeah, that’s fine.”

            “Alright then. I’ll get in touch about details later.”   

            Harry lingered in the courtyard for a little while longer, left to wonder how he was going to survive a trip to Hogsmeade with those two and how, exactly, he was going to break into the prefects’ bath at night.


	3. Interlude #1, Hogsmeade, and Yuletide Crises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed this segment. I'm white, and while I did do some research, if anything is inaccurate and/or offensive when it comes to the bit about Harry being half Indian and his interactions with Parvati, feel free to let me know so I can edit and correct myself accordingly. Of course, if anything else is problematic, feel free to tell me. Thank you all so much for reading this fic.

SEVEN

            “So you’re really going to go to Hogsmeade with those two?”

            “Yeah. Look, it’s not like we’re going to be—bosom pals, or anything like that—you’re still my best friends, yeah?”

            “Yeah, alright.”

            “Ron, calm down, Harry can spend time with his soulmates for a few hours.”

            “Right.  Well, if they do anything stupid, I can always duel’em for you. ‘S’not like it’d be too hard, they’re not as good as you or anything.”

            “ _Ron.”_

            “I’m just saying, just because they’re his soulmates or whatever doesn’t mean I can’t duel them if they bugger it up—“

            “Thanks, Ron. Really.”

            “No problem, Harry.”

            “Will you two please get back to your Potions essays?”

            “Ugh, Hermione, why would we ever subject ourselves to that, pardon my language, utter bullshit?”

            “Ron, please—Harry, stop laughing—oh, just shut up.”

            “Yes, m’am.”

            “Hey, Hermione?”

            “Yes, Harry?”

            “Is it weird to feel like your soulmates aren’t your other halves, or whatever?”

            “…No, I don’t think so. I mean, those movies and books and things are rather silly, aren’t they? I think it’s perfectly normal to feel that way about soulmates. Besides, you’re whole enough by yourself.”

           “I second that motion.”

           “Ron, would you _please_ stop trying to impersonate Fudge it’s not—not funny at all—“

           “You’re laughing now, aren’t you?”

            “Would you—please—“

            “Harry, look at this: I’ve done it, she’s a goner. Tears of laugher. Are streaming. Down her face. Merlin’s beard, this is what you look like whenever Cho and Cedric are around.”

            _“What?”_

            “Don’t even deny it Harry, you fancy them.”

            “That’s—that’s not true at all—“

            “Relax, I’ll keep your secrets.”

             “Just—what are you—ugh, never mind. It’s not my fault they look so…so well-dressed all the time, is it?”

             “Well-dressed. Yes. Exactly that.”

             “Shut up, Hermione.”

             “C’mon, mate, we’re just messing with you. It’s alright, no judgement here. Let’s finish this bloody Snape essay.”

             “Yeah, yeah.”

             “ _Finally_.”

            “Be quiet, Herminoe, we’re studying.”

            “Hey, um. Thanks. For everything.”

            “Not a problem, Harry.”

            “We’ve got your back, mate.”

EIGHT

            After getting distracted by schoolwork, friends, the tournament, and, in Harry’s case, Voldemort potentially planting a spy in Hogwarts, Cho, Cedric, and Harry finally met outside of Honeyduke’s on a cloudy Saturday afternoon.

            The wind bit their noses and scattered the last of the autumn leaves to the alleyways. Harry wore his Weasley jumper, Cho was bundled up with fuzzy pink mittens, a knitted navy hat, and a pair of polka dot rain boots she had won from a Triwizard Tournament bet. She didn’t give them any specifics, but she did mumble, “It was impossible to lose, plus these boots are really nice.” Cedric wore a long, heavy green coat that draped over his shoulders in addition to a stuffed knapsack and a jumper “cousin Quinton made for me; it’s got some holes, but I can’t just throw it away, can I?” All of them wore their House scarves.

            Cho sneezed and trembled despite her many layers. “Bit nippy, isn’t it?”

            Cedric nodded, voice muffled by his scarf. “Winter’s going to be bad this year; my poor owl Geillis keeps shivering every time I send her out, and it hasn’t even snowed yet.”

            Cho cooed in sympathy. “My great-grandmother taught me how to knit. If you need something to keep your owl warm I could always make something.”

            “Would you really? Thank you so much, she’s a tiny little thing.”

Cho flushed and smiled shyly, eyes darting to her boots. “My owl Zhenli is a Great Gray, he’s too big to be bothered by the cold. Sometimes I wish I could just shake off the weather like he does, but I can’t help it! I love the cold, but it doesn’t love me.”

            Harry, sandwiched between them in an effort to make room for people who were bustling in and out of Honeyduke’s, loosened a laugh from his chest as he tried to remember how to talk. “Hedwig’s fine in anything, she’s all…poofy. And she loves flying too much.”

            Cedric looked down at him with crinkled eyes and Cho smiled wide, right at his face, and Harry wanted to burrow into his scarf. They were too close; it was like being with Ron and Hermione, except they weren’t arguing, and everyone was getting along.

            It felt like he was in the middle of someone else’s simple story, where all he had to do was go to Hogsmeade for a few hours and do homework for Monday.

            He took a deep breath and curled his hands into fists. “So. Are we going into Honeyduke’s, or not?”       

            Cho started. “Oh, right. Shall we go in then?”

            They traipsed into Honeyduke’s, grateful for its warmth and brightly-it interior. It was nearly packed with people; Harry even saw Fleur looking quizzically at the Fizzing Whizbees. Cho went straight for the Peppermint Patties and Liquorice Wands while Cedric headed off towards the Canary Creams and Pink Coconut Ice. Harry meandered through the shop, idly browsing the candies and sweets; he wrinkled his nose at the Blood-Flavored Lollipops but picked out a promising assortment of Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavored Beans. He liked the speckled red ones the most; they tended to taste like cherries, or strawberries, or sometimes blackboard chalk, but the cherry and strawberry flavors were worth the risk.

            After spending an extra fifteen minutes in the shop because one of the staff was passing out Sugar Quill samples, Cedric said, sugar sprinkled on his coat, “I brought us some sandwiches from the kitchens, if you want to eat lunch now.”

            Harry’s stomach betrayed him; Honeyduke’s had made him realize how long ago breakfast was.

            Cho played with her hair, eyes wide. “Wow, you really didn’t have to—“

            Cedric shrugged, scanning the village for a place to sit and finding people every which way. “It’s nothing really, the common room is right by the kitchens anyway. I just can’t seem to find any place to sit, maybe we should just—“

            “We can go to the Shrieking Shack.” _What? Where had that come?_ Harry could have kicked himself.

Cedric raised his eyebrows, surprised but pleased. “That’s a great idea, Harry! I’ve wanted to visit it, but all of my mates always make up excuses not to go.”

            Cho frowned, eyeing the little house on the hill in the distance with trepidation. “I’ve heard that someone lives there, though. What if something happens and-- ?”

            “No one lives there, it’s empty.”

            They both looked at Harry, irritation narrowing his eyes as he almost snapped, “It’s perfectly safe; let’s go.”

            So they went, trudging up the hill, eyes watering as the wind tried to knock them down. Harry thought about the last time he had been here, and his chest constricted as he thought of Sirius and Lupin, and where they were now.

            Finally, they reached the top. Harry sat closest to the Shack while Cedric opened his knapsack and rummaged through it until he pulled out some sandwiches wrapped in checkered cloth and tied with yellow string. Cho, after one last look at the battered, creaking house, sat down too, shoulders hunched as the grass swayed against her legs.

            Cedric passed out the sandwiches with care, taking great pains not to brush hands with either of them, and he looked almost bashful when he muttered, “The house elves were happy to help me make these, but, uh, I didn’t know what you’d want so I just asked for a bit of everything, if that’s alright—“

            He stopped as Harry unwrapped his sandwich with abandon and started eating immediately; when he lived with the Dursleys, they never gave him much time to eat. “They’re delicious,” Harry answered with his mouth full, forcing himself to slow down and enjoy the meal. There was crisp lettuce, and ripe tomato, beef, turkey, ham, mustard, butter, spinach, parsley, onion, even bacon. Cho nodded enthusiastically, too consumed with eating to form a worded response. Cedric relaxed then, easy smile back in place as he began nibbling on his own sandwich, peering inquisitively at the Shrieking Shack looming in front of them. “Hey, Harry,” he mused after a while, “How d’you know so much about this place? I heard something about Professor Lupin and how this place is haunted, but I’m not sure what’s true and what’s not.”

            Cho set her half-eaten sandwich down on her lap. “Yes, I’ve heard some awful things about the place, but they can’t all be true, can they?”

            For a moment, Harry thought about lying to them, or just not talking. It had worked for most other people, why not them? But then he thought about how not knowing things can make everything worse; he saw the nervous way Cho twirled a blade of grass in her fingers, and Cedric’s knapsack stuffed with what appeared to be gardening supplies as well as food. If someone was going to try to repair the Shrieking Shack, they better know what really happened. So he looked at them and said, “Last year, I was in the Shrieking Shack with—please don’t freak out—Professor Lupin, Sirius Black, and—“

            “ _What_?” Cho gasped, almost flinging her sandwich off her lap.

            “Could you—could you start from the beginning, maybe?” Cedric croaked, looking a bit pale himself.

            Harry sighed, wishing Ron and Hermione were here to help him. They would have known what to say. After a pause, he meticulously adjusted his glasses, squared his shoulders, opened his mouth, and told them the whole thing: How Professor Lupin was a werewolf, how the Shack was built, what the Marauder’s Map was, who Sirius Black actually was, Peter Pettigrew’s disguise, the Time Turner—he told them all of it. It look a while; sometimes Harry stumbled over the words, like “my godfather,” because they were so intimate, and new; he winced when he said, “he’s a werewolf, that’s why he left,” and there was a catch in his throat when he mumbled, “I thought it was my Dad, I thought he had driven the Dementors away.” The house shivered right along with them on top of the wind-blown hill; the clouds darkened with each passing moment.

            By the time he was done, Cho had propped herself up on her elbows, enthralled, and Cedric kept opening and closing his mouth, like he desperately wanted to ask something.

            “Wow,” Cho breathed, “Thank you for telling us the whole story. I never even knew why Professor Lupin left, he was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher I’ve ever had—“

            “Same here,” Cedric murmured, “And Sirius Black is your _godfather_ , and innocent of all of his charges? Why—why didn’t Dumbledore put a stop to any of this? He could have kept Professor Lupin teaching, he could have gotten Sirius out of Azkaban—“

            “Yes, exactly,” Cho interrupted, eyes blazing. Harry was taken aback; he’d never seen the two of them so worked up before. “According to his Chocolate Frog card, Dumbledore is part of the Wizengamot, he could have acquitted him! Why let him rot in Azkaban, especially when it was that Pettigrew man all along? Hogwarts has always had a flawed educational system, but this—this isn’t right.”

            Cedric nodded rapidly, hands thrust forward in askance. “Who would do something to your allies like that? It’s like some kind of twisted betrayal of trust, and I can’t believe Dumbledore, of all people, would do that to anyone.”

            Harry frowned, an uneasy sort of anger sparking up his spine. “Well, Dumbledore has his motives; besides, it’s not like Lupin would’ve kept his job if he’d allowed him to teach. Imagine all of the letters pouring in. Parents wouldn’t—they wouldn’t like a werewolf, teaching their kids. And Sirius…well, he’s out now. Dumbldore always has a plan, and he’s got a reason for everything. I’m sure he did everything he could.”

            Cho and Cedric exchanged glances, and Harry didn’t like the way they were looking at him, like he was just a kid. “Look, that’s what happened, alright? D’you want to sit here all day, or go back to school before it starts raining?”

            “Right,” Cedric said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, staring at his scuffed shoes. “We should get going.”

            As they stood up on wobbly legs, Harry tried not to sound angry when he said, “Please don’t go around telling this to people, alright? This stays between us.”

            Cho nodded immediately, a small grin twitching across her face as she said, “I solemnly swear it.”

            “Me too,” Cedric echoed, swinging his knapsack over his shoulder with determination.

            Harry turned around and began the descent down the hill, eyes burning; it felt good to tell the truth, but did they really have to be so…dedicated? He supposed there was no going back now; keeping Cho and Cedric at arms-length was proving to be too difficult.

            A hand tapped his shoulder when they reached the bottom, raindrops splattering onto their clothes. Harry turned around slowly. Cho withdrew her hand and closed her eyes before saying, “That was really brave of you, Harry. Telling us all of that.”

            Cedric added, voice rough, “Yes, it was. If…if you want to come along some time to plant seeds near the Shrieking Shack, and maybe clear away some of the clutter in there, I’d be honored to have your input. My mum always says to mend what you can, so.”

            Harry’s face burned even as the rain dripped down from his glasses. “Er, thanks. Yeah, I think—I s’pose I’d like to do that. Professor Lupin would be Ok with it too, I think.”

            “I’ll help as well,” Cho said, walking hurriedly so she was on his left and Cedric was on his right. “I don’t want this place to be forgotten, and I can bring extra supplies; there’s a girl a few years below me who loves nature.”

            Harry coughed, narrowly avoiding a small collection of passerby as they reached Hogsmeade, rain blurring his vision. “Well, this has been an…interesting time, but I should really be going, Ron and Hermione need me for—for some things—“

            Cho rescued him, quick to fill in the rain-pattered quiet as her boots sqelched against the cobblestone. “Yeah, I should be going too, Marrietta and Michael said they wanted to show me a collection of wizard joke books from the 1700s. But it was, um, really nice spending the day with you both.”

            Cedric looked a bit crestfallen as Harry edged ahead of them while Cho began walking towards a side-street shortcut, but he mock-saluted and replied, “Well, goodbye to you both! I have to get back to the common room, there’s a pastry-baking contest going on after dinner that we need to prep for—anyway. Let’s do this again some time, yeah? I’ll bring more sandwiches.”

            “Definitely!”

            “Yeah, that’d be good.”

            They parted ways.

            Harry felt an odd ache in his chest as he trudged back to Hogwarts, almost feeling a sense of loss without Cho and Cedric brushing against him. It wasn’t like they were best friends or anything, but maybe—maybe he missed them, just a little, and that was a start.

NINE

            Everything had been going decently; sure, Sirius hadn’t written in a while, Rita Skeeter had shown up to Care of Magical Creatures on Monday, predictably ruining everything with that Quick Quote Quill of hers, and he still hadn’t gone to the prefects’ bathroom because his professors seemed to delight in giving him as much work as possible before the end of term, but everything had at least been manageable. Things had been fine.

            And then Macgonagall announced the Yule Ball.

            Harry didn’t think his life was going to get any worse, but oh, how he had been wrong.

            It was all anyone could talk about: “Who are you going to ask? Do you have a nice outfit to wear? How are you going to ask? You have to go, it’s mandatory! I’ve heard the Champions have to dance first—“

            Harry wasn’t one to panic, but it took every ounce of willpower he had to not yell, “ _What am I going to do!?”_

Was he supposed to ask _both of them_?

            Did he even have to ask them at all?

            It’s not like anyone else knew that he had soulmates, maybe he could just go with Ron or something and have a good time.

            Sure, it wouldn’t be….unpleasant to ask them, and they’d be much better company than most, but-- no, he had no obligations to them. He was going to get through this without asking either of them.

            Or so Harry thought.

            Before he could blink, almost everyone in Gryffindor House had been taken. Dean and Seamus, unsurprisingly, were going together, Hermione had a mysterious date, Ginny was going with Neville, Lee Jordan and George planned to crash the ball, Fred had Angelina, Katie Bell accepted Alicia Spinnet’s offer—who was left?

            Thus, Harry found himself traveling to the owlry, planning to have Hedwig deliver notes to Cho and Cedric, when he almost crashed into Cho on the way.

            “Oh! Harry, hi!” She looked extra cheerful today, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Her hair had a flower pin in it.

            “Hello, Cho.”

            “What are you doing here?”

            “I was—uh—I wanted to ask—“ _Bloody hell, he was not prepared for this—_

“Yes?”

            Harry tried to inhale as much air as possible without choking. “Er…wouldyouliketogototheballwithmeasfriends?”

            Cho blinked, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and frowned. “Sorry, what did you say?”

            Harry felt a grin twitch across his face, and found himself repeating himself, in an increasingly high-pitched voice, “Would-you-like-to-go-to-the-ball-with-me-as-friends?”

            Cho put a gloved hand to her mouth in understanding, not even noticing as her hat almost flew off her head from a sudden breeze. “Oh, Harry—“  she started, removing her hand from her mouth, looking at him with so much—was it pity?—that Harry had to stare at his shoes. “That’s—that’s such a nice offer, and I would have really loved to have gone with you, I solemnly swear, but—but Cedric already asked! I’m so sorry, he had no one else to go with, and I didn’t either, and this way it would just be friends having a good time without the pressure of bringing a date and everything—I’m really sorry!”

            Harry’s stomach sunk to his toes, like a boat in a whirlpool. His mouth felt dry as sand as he stuttered, “That’s—that’s ok, really—It’s fine. I hope…have a fun time with Cedric.”

            Cho bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Harry. If—if things were different, I’d have loved to go with both of you—“

            “It’s alright. Bye, Cho. See you at the ball.”

            Harry slunk back to the Gryffindor common room, stomach still settling on his toes, like Crookshanks sitting on a cushion. A numbing, heavy, soul-crushing cushion.

            Ron was lounging on his usual armchair, looking every bit as defeated as Harry felt. “No luck?”

            “No,” Harry sighed, deflating as he collapsed onto his armchair. “I still don’t know who to ask.”

            “Me neither,” Ron agreed, pinching his nose with his fingers in frustration. “I can’t believe Hermione got a date before us, that’s just bloody mad, isn’t it?”

            “Ron, I don’t think—“

            “Hi, Harry!”

            The Boy Who Lived snapped his head up from the arm-rest as Parvati Patil strolled into the common room. He tended to avoid Parvati and her sister, Padma; they were perfectly nice, but Harry couldn’t help but feel very small and stupid whenever they talked about the naan their parents sent them or when they would announce, “Daadee sent us a letter from Andhra Pradesh, look!” or when they switched seamlessly from Hindi or Telugu to English.

            Harry felt the same shrinking, shameful feeling, like a worm burrowing into his gut, whenever he looked at his parents’ photo album. He saw countless photos of his father dressed in traditional Indian garb, surrounded by his loud, smiling family. His clothes were always bit too tight on him (Lily tended to pat his pudgy stomach fondly in lots of photos), but he looked so at ease, and his family looked so happy.

           When Harry looked in the Mirror of Erised, he wore the same clothes and spoke the same language. He belonged.

           “Hi, Parvati,” he mumbled, cleaning his glasses forcefully with his robes.

           She took small steps forward, but her voice was clear and strong when she asked, “This might seem too forward, but would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me? Everyone else is taken, not that you’re a last resort or anything.”

           Harry’s stomach surged up to his throat as he scrambled to sit up. Parvati quirked her eyebrow in bemusement, holding back a laugh as she asked, “You alright?”

           “Yeah, I’m fine, it’s just been a rough day. But, er, I’d love to go to the ball with you. As friends.”

            Parvati waved her hand, smiling hugely in obvious relief. “Oh, yes, of course we’d be going as friends. Ooh, we get to be one of the first to dance, that’s so exciting! D’you care about coordinating outfits at all? Lavender and her girlfriend are going in matching dresses, and I was wondering if you’d like to wear a sherwani that goes with the sari I have.”

           Harry felt cold sweat freeze the back of his neck and wished, more than anything, that he knew how to answer. He nearly choked out, “That’s….those are traditional outfits worn in India, right?”

           Parvati frowned slightly, nodding slowly. “Yeah, they are. How d’you not know what a sari and a sherwani are, that’s like, some of the most basic things—“

          “Lay off him, alright?” Ron snapped, sitting ramrod straight in his armchair, hand reaching for his pocket.

           Harry waved him off, face heating up as words stumbled out. “Sorry, it’s just…well…the Dursleys, the people I live with, they….they didn’t really teach me any of this stuff. I wasn’t exactly—well, they didn’t really know about those kinds of things anyway.”

          “Oh.” Parvati seemed at a loss for words for a moment before murmuring, “I’m sorry, Harry, I had no idea.”

          Harry shrugged, hoping to cast off some of the embarrassment sticking to his shoulders. “’S’not a problem, it’s not important anyway.”

          Parvati tapped her foot in thought. After a minute or so of Ron muttering under his breath and listening to the fire crackle, she said, “This is just an idea, but, um, would you be comfortable wearing a sherwani? It’s sort of like a long coat, and it’s worn mostly by men to formal events. Like how I wear my sari to weddings and fancy dinner parties. They don’t have to match or anything, but maybe….maybe it could work?”

         Harry nodded slowly, hating the way his voice cracked when he replied, “Yeah, that’d be Ok. But—but wouldn’t it be wrong to wear one if I’ve never worn it before? I mean, I haven’t been to India and I only speak English and I don’t even know what the food is called and —“

        “Harry, it’s fine!” Parvati interrupted, looking concerned, a small smile never quite leaving her face. “You’re desi, and that’s all that matters.”

         Harry nodded, feeling a cauldronful of emotions swirl in his chest. “Ok.”

         Parvati’s smile grew, looking pleased with herself as she brushed her braid to the side. “That’s great. If you don’t have anyone who could help you get one, I have a cousin who’s about your size, and he hasn’t even worn his sherwani. I could always ask him to give it to you.”

         “No, no it’s fine, I can get one—“

          Parvati stopped him with a raised hand. “Harry, it’s Ok that you need help with this. We all do at some point. My cousin Rohan would be only too happy to get rid of it, he hates wearing formal clothes.”

          Harry finally placed his glasses back onto the bridge of nose, bringing the world into focus. “Thanks, Parvati.”

          “No problem. I’ll get in touch about the ball and everything later, but now I’ve got to go visit Professor Terwlany for a tea-leaves reading session, and then I have to write in my dream journals because I’ve been having lots of dreams that end in a mummy chasing me—anyway, bye!”

          Harry barely had time to say, “G’bye!” before Parvati bustled out of the common room in record time.

         “Looks like you’ve got a date, mate,” Ron said, chuckling at his own rhyme. “Wish I had one.”

         “You could always ask Parvati’s sister Padma,” Harry suggested, feeling the air gust out of his lungs as he slouched in the arm chair once more. “I think she’s still available, and she seems nice.”

         “Yeah, yeah,” Ron muttered, too busy squinting at a chessboard on a table nearby.

         “I’m serious, Ron, ask her.”

         “Alright, alright. You ok with wearing those clothes, though? You looked really uncomfortable when Parvati brought it up.”

          Harry paused. He pictured Uncle Vernon growling, “We don’t talk about that Potter man’s sort at the dinner table,” and Aunt Petunia snapping at visitors, “Of course he goes to a delinquent school for boys, just look at him!”

          He remembered not being allowed to join in whenever the Dursleys took family portraits.

          He thought of kids back in primary school who would ask, “Why do you look so funny?” and “Aren’t you supposed to have an accent?”

          Harry looked at Ron and answered, in a voice that did not quake, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine with wearing that to the Yule Ball. I’d like to, actually.”

 

 

           

           

           

                       


	4. A Breakfast to be Remembered, The Ball, and A Late-Night List

TEN

    Snow fell in flaky flurries, blowing past the window in graceful tumbles. It was late morning on Christmas Eve, and the sudsy, kitchen-sink sky was too murky to let sunlight through the clouds. Birds chirped to each other despite the snowfall, small collections of sounds to tear at the swirling silence a bit. A tree branch’s twig-fingers rattled at the window.

     Harry rose out of bed groggily, almost dropping his glasses as he fumbled to get them on his face.

     Ron was still asleep, probably dreaming about his not-so-flattering outfit for the Yule Ball, but Harry knew that his friend’s stomach would wake him up soon. Normally, he would have waited for Ron so that they could meet up with Hermione for breakfast, but today Harry felt like spending the last of the morning alone today.

      He kept thinking about what Sirius had told him in his letter. The words _You’ve only done one task_ , and _I still want to hear about anything unusual_ rang like alarm bells in his head as he headed out of the dorm with his robes half-heartedly thrown on. Harry couldn’t help but feel the pressure that came with awareness; he would see Karkaroff in hidden corners and think, _Are you the one who put my name in the goblet?_ He didn’t want to be paranoid, not like Mad-Eye, he wanted to spend his Christmas break with his friends, but—but—

     “Hey, where’re you off to?”

      Harry spun around, about to leave the common room, only to find Ron struggling to put his robes over his pajamas, blinking the sleep out of blue eyes. “Wait up, will you? ‘M hungry.”

      Harry couldn’t help but grin as Ron shuffled towards him sluggishly. His own stomach growled. “Yeah, alright.”

      The two of them headed to the Great Hall together, where Hermione was predictably waiting for them, a forkful of pasty in her mouth as she managed a quick, “Hello, you two,” before continuing to eat voraciously. She got that way, after long study sessions that lasted late into the night; food was fuel, and breakfast _was_ the most important meal of the day.

       They sat on either side of her, Ron already engrossed with his bacon, and Harry was just about to shove potatoes on his plate when he felt an oddly familiar tap on his shoulder.

        When he turned around and saw Cho, smiling nervously with her hands behind her back, he found that he wasn’t as surprised as he should be. She muttered, “Hi, Harry,” shuffling from one slippered foot to the other, and looking steadfastly at her periwinkle bunny slippers.

        “Hello,” he managed back, confusion fogging his head as his neck tingled with other people’s stares. “Uh, d’you need anything?”

         By now, Gryffindors were starting to look their way with curiosity and suspicion alike. Ron even glanced up from his bacon and Hermione was trying very hard not to pay attention. Cho cleared her throat. “I—well—I just wanted to say—Happy holidays!”

         Without warning, she shoved something into Harry’s hands. Harry glanced down and found himself holding a book called _Magic Around the World: A Comprehensive Study in South Asia_ by Dr. Anya Bhat, PhD.

          Cho bit her lip, eyes darting every which way as she spluttered, “I’m, um…I’m sorry if this is overstepping anything, but I heard Padma talking about how you’re going with Parvati to the Yule Ball, and then she was telling me about your relatives and that they didn’t—didn’t tell you about these things, so—and I had to go to Hogsmeade anyway, for holiday shopping, and Padma said this book was good, and I thought—if you don’t want it, that’s fine—“

         “No,” Harry interrupted, feeling an odd sense of openness, like he’d told some sort of long-forgotten secret. “No, it’s fine. Er—thank you. Thank you so much, you really didn’t have to, but I, um. I appreciate this. I—I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything—“

          Cho wiped her misty eyes in relief, nearly hiccupping as she replied, “Oh, it’s not a problem, really! Ugh, I’m sorry I’m such a mess, I cry over the stupidest things—“

          “Hey, it’s ok to cry,” a low voice chuckled, and Harry and Cho turned to see Cedric striding towards them, carrying two small baskets in his hands.

           By now, the entire Gryffindor table had stopped eating altogether, and some students over at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables had looked their way as well. Harry steeled himself and said evenly, “Hi, Cedric.”

            Cedric smiled back, ducking his head as he held out his—were they gifts? “Hi, you two. I meant to wish you both a Merry Christmas a bit later, but then I saw Cho go over to Harry and I thought, why not now? Anyway, here are your presents.”

            Cho reached for one of the baskets gingerly, while Harry nearly swiped it out of Cedric’s hand; he didn’t want to make a production out of it, it wasn’t like this was a big deal or anything. Not at all.

            The little baskets contained a collection of pastries, from buttery rolls to chocolate cakes to strawberry tarts.

             “Thanks,” Harry and Cho said at the same time, Harry refusing to look down, Cho keeping her hands still.

            Cedric grinned, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re welcome.”

            Harry blinked, a bit dazed, and all three of them were unsure how to proceed when:

            “Still wearing a Tornados badge, are you?” Ron accused Cho gruffly as he eyed the large Quidditch badge pinned on her robes, folding his arms over his chest, jam smeared across his face in defiance.

            Cho straightened, brushing her hair out of her face, and looked very dignified even in her bunny slippers as she replied, “Yes, yes I am. My family has supported them long before they won any championships.”

            Ron nodded once, still glaring at the offending badge. “Alright. Thought you might be one of those types who only roots for the winners.”

            Cho shook her head adamantly, glaring challengingly at him. “Never.”

            Fred and George looked at them with increasing glee while Lee Jordan kept a running commentary under his breath and the rest of the table gossiped amongst themselves.

            Ron stabbed his eggs with a bit too much force (Hermione muttered something that sounded like “ _Sports,”_ looking cross) and casually mentioned, “I’m a Cannons supporter myself.”

            Cho snorted, suppressing a laugh. “The Cannons, really? They haven’t won anything in who knows how long—“

            “Yeah, like the Tornados are so great—“

            “Oh, stop, they’re better than the _Chudley Cannons_ —“

            “Er, how about we leave it for later, yeah? Just-- ”

            “Cedric, this is serious—“

            “Stay out of it mate, anyone who says the Cannons are worse than the bloody Tutshill Tornados needs to go down—“

            “Oh, like Gudgeon is better than Plumpton-- ?”

            “At least we fight fairly, unlike you scheming gits—“

            “ _What_ \-- ?”

            Harry stepped between them before they could say anything else; Macgonagall was peering their way, and he didn’t want anyone to get in trouble over this. “Stop.”

            Cho backed off while Ron looked away mutinously. Cho glanced at Harry contritely, hands resting at her sides. “Sorry, Harry. I, er, I’m a big Tornados fan.”

            Ron tore at his toast, jaw snapped shut.

            Hermione sighed in relief as Cedric muttered a quick, “Thank you,” at Harry. She spoke up at last, looking intently at Cedric with a saleswoman’s eye. “Well, now that that’s out of the way, since you’re here, Cedric, I was wondering if you could—“

            “That is quite enough!” Macgonagall’s orders came from a distance as Gryffindors remained in shock that 1. Two very popular people had given Harry Potter presents and 2. A Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff were still carrying on conversation at the Gryffindor table like this wasn’t illegal.

            Hermione pushed through the muted shouts and giggles with determined indifference. “As I was saying, Cedric, I was wondering if you would like to join SPEW.”

            Ron groaned through his toast.

            Harry suppressed a laugh as Cedric frowned in bemusement. “Er, sorry, what was that?”

            Hermione tapped her silverware impatiently against the table, ignoring Macgonagall rising from her seat. “SPEW stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, and it seeks to end house elf enslavement—“

            “Miss Granger!”

            “—and abuse, both at Hogwarts and beyond.”

            Cedric raised his eyebrows. “Impressive. Yeah, I’d love to join, maybe we can talk about this later—“

            “That is _enough_!”

            The Great Hall suddenly became very quiet as Professor Macgonagall marched towards them, eyeing the scene in bewildered irritation. “Mr. Diggory, Ms. Chang, I do not know what possessed the two of you to waltz away from your respective tables—“

            “But Professor—“

            “Be quiet, Weasely. I must ask the two of you to return to your proper places immediately. The Yule Ball may be tomorrow, but the rules are very clear: Houses are to be divided at mealtimes.”

            “Professor,” Harry blurted out, nerves almost giving way as Macgonagall gave him a look that could scald a Horn-Tail, “They weren’t doing any harm, they were just wishing us a Merry Christmas, take points off from me if you want—“

            “Potter, I don’t want to hear it—“

            “According to _Hogwarts, A History_ ,” Hermione chimed in, surprising everyone, “Students are not allowed to _sit_ at other House tables. Cedric and Cho were clearly standing throughout this entire altercation. So no actual rules were broken, and no one can lose points over this.”

            Ron, gob-smacked, nearly stabbed himself when he tried to cut his sausage. Harry was dimly aware that all eyes were on them, and that Cedric and Cho were looking at Hermione with increased respect, but everything seemed to be coming from far away.

            This was shaping up to be a very unusual breakfast.

            Macgonagall allowed herself a long-suffering sigh. “Fine,” she said stiffly, “No points will be taken off, if only thanks to Miss Granger’s careful reading. However, my instructions still stand: Mr. Diggory, Ms. Cho, go back to your breakfasts immediately. You have caused enough commotion for one morning.”

            Cho and Cedric left accordingly, practically fleeing to their tables as the other students looked on.

            Macgonagall said something along the lines of, “Carry on, you all,” but Harry wasn’t paying much attention, because once the Professor glided back to her own seat, and the usual din of the Great Hall started up again, Ron burst out, “That was bloody unfair of her, interrupting us like that! No one insults the Cannons without a proper debate—“

            “Not to mention Cedric could have joined SPEW,” Hermione said peevishly, “and we could have gotten an inside look at the kitchen operations and everything—“

            As Harry held his new book in one hand and the basket of sweets in the other, as Ron and Hermione shared looks of indignation, Harry found himself thinking that perhaps this whole soulmate thing could work after all.

ELEVEN

            Harry had conveniently forgotten that Cho and Cedric were going to the Yule Ball. Together.

            ( _Without him_ , his traitorous brain reminded him.)

            The Yule Ball was going to start up soon; 8 o’clock was fast approaching.

            He breathed in and out and carefully slipped on the sherwani Parvati had given to him the night before.

            It was long, almost like his robes, with ornate patterns swirling up and down the sleeves and down the front. It was comfortable to wear, if a bit big on him, but Harry was used to that. He buttoned it carefully, thinking about how he was wearing a stranger’s suit.

            The sherwani was red and gold, Gryffindor colors, and it made Harry feel a bit more at home wearing it. It was not quite the same as the clothes his father’s family wore, but it was close, and that was enough.

He wore one of the pairs of socks Dobby had piled on him that morning for luck. He was going to need it.

            Ron emerged from changing into his attire after a round of curses and yelps, trying his best to smooth out the ragged, puffy sleeves and glaring at the maroon like it had insulted his mother.

            “Ready?” Harry asked, trying his best not to tease; he knew that Ron couldn’t afford a better outfit.

            Ron laughed bitterly. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s just get this bloody thing over with.”       

            And so they went out of the dorms and into the common room. Harry couldn’t believe how different everyone was dressed; he was so used to seeing the same black robes that to see even a hint of color was a shock to the system. Neville wore something his grandmother had sent him; it was dark green, looked a bit old, and had flowers on the sleeves, but he looked surprisingly confident, even boastful, as the flower designs bloomed on command. Dean and Seamus wore suits with matching bowties, while Lavender Brown and Eloise Midgen wore identical yellow dresses. Angelina Johnson wore an expertly tailored suit while Fred wore a sleek magenta dress; it was part of a deal they had made, and both of them looked quite pleased with themselves, catching everyone’s admiring glances. George and Lee Jordan were conspiring in the corner. Katie Bell kept giggling loudly at Alicia Spinnet’s jokes, linking their arms together in giddy happiness.

            It was so boisterous and bright that Harry almost didn’t notice Parvati greet him, wearing an elegant purple-and-gold sari of her own. It nearly matched his sherwani. “Hey, Harry,” she grinned, beckoning him forward to meet her. “My cousin’s not your size, but you still look handsome.”

            Harry felt his face heat up and responded, “Thanks, Parvati. You look very pretty.”

            She laughed, not unkindly, and gently took his arm. “Are you ready to head off then? Champions dance first, you know.”

            Harry nodded, throat bobbing, and gestured behind him, where Ron was still struggling to make his outfit look remotely modern. “Hang on, Ron’s having a spot of bother.”

            Parvati raised her eyebrows at Ron’s antics. “Well, as long as he doesn’t take too long. Though really, those robes look like a disaster waiting to happen.”

            Harry sighed. “Yeah, it’s all he’s got, so just—he’ll just have to bear it.”

            Parvati nodded, casting a final disapproving glance at Ron before looking at Harry. “Alright then.”

            They waited for Ron in a silence not entirely awkward until he was ready, stomping forward in a rage. “Let’s go,” Ron spat out, marching off to the entrance hall.

            Harry shrugged helplessly, Parvati wrinkled her nose, and off they went. Harry tried very hard not to trip as they made their way to the entrance hall. Ron had found Padma, who was wearing a shimmering green-and-yellow sari, which clashed horribly with Ron’s maroon and lace. They didn’t look very happy together. Harry thought he heard Ron say something about Hermione, and Padma was looking wistfully at a Beauxbatons student.

            Harry turned away from them and focused on not throwing up; the opening dance was going to start any time now, and he hadn’t even practiced the waltz like Neville had--

            Parvati held his hand in a crushing grip, and she hissed in his ear, “Listen, you may be the Boy Who Lived, but you are not getting sick right now; this is my moment. We have a ball to dance. Alright?”         

            Harry nodded, swallowing bile as quickly as he could. “Ok,” he whispered hoarsely.

            He breathed through his nose and steadied himself. He could do this. He beat the Dark Lord when he was a baby, he killed a Basilisk, he flew faster than a Hungarian Horn-Tail, he could get through this one dance—

            Then Cedric and Cho ambled up next to them.

            Harry tried very hard not to pay attention to Cedric’s fitted navy suit and Cho’s silver, high-collared dress. He did not look at them when he heard Cedric laughing, the sound rumbling through his broad chest, and he did not so much as glance at them when Cho would say things like, “Hey, Cedric, we’re not back row hoppers anymore,” and “Should we all be doing the bear right now?” because he had no idea what any of that meant, and Cho was a little tipsy. He could feel both of them looking at him, and Harry fixed his gaze on Parvati’s elbow until she gasped, “Is that—is that _Hermione Granger_?”

            It seemed that absolutely everyone in attendance was transfixed on Viktor Krum’s partner for the evening, Harry included. Hermione’s hair was no longer frizzy; it didn’t even have a quill in it or anything, and it was straightened. Did she—Harry squinted—was she wearing _lipstick_? Her gown, a light shade of blue that complimented her skin tone excellently, flowed around her like an ocean wave. Her smile was nervous, but proud. Harry tried to give her a thumbs up while Cedric and Cho were utterly spellbound; even Fleur Delacour nodded approvingly while Roger Davies swooned.

            Hermione and Krum descended from the entrance hall steps and walked through the crowd like a conquering army. In seconds, they stood next to Fleur and Roger while Harry, Parvati, Cedric, and Cho stood on the other side of the glistening dance floor. They all strained to smile at each other as reality hit: The Yule Ball was upon them. Everyone was waiting.

            As Macgonagall announced that the Ball was to begin, Parvati whispered, “Grab my waist!” and Harry felt suspended in this moment, right in between the urgent breath in his ear, the stillness of the audience surrounding them, the sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose, and the way his shoes looked, so polished and clean he could almost see himself reflected in them.

            Then the music started, something ethereal and distant, not quite reaching his ears. He grasped Parvati’s waist lightly as she led him through the steps, looking every bit the perfect dance partner. She really was good, Harry mused as they danced, miraculously in time, and he tried not to think about how Cho and Cedric were doing.

            After what felt like an eternity of following Parvati’s steps and focusing on staying away from the other champions as much as possible, the music faded away; the dance was over.

            Parvati smiled widely as she let him go to thunderous applause, soaking up the well-deserved attention, waving to the crowd. Harry edged away from her, muttering, “Thanks for everything, Parvati,” when an extremely handsome boy from Durmstrang approached them offering his hand, dark skin glowing in the light, braid flowing down his back. Parvati, looking smug as she gladly accepted, shouted a quick, “Not a problem, Harry! Have a nice night!” as Harry snuck off to find Ron.

            He craned his neck, looking for a flash of red and maroon, almost having to look away because everything was so illuminated and dazzling, when—

            “Hey, Harry!”

            Harry saw Cho and Cedric practically skipping towards him. Cedric, he noticed, had unbuttoned his shirt a bit, and Cho had drawn her hair up in an artful bun; they had danced with a lot more enthusiasm than Harry had.

            “Harry,” Cho greeted him, looking flushed and pretty in a way that made people smile right along with her, steadier than she was before . “I—well, Cedric and I—we just wanted to say—“

            “That we’re sorry for not inviting you to the ball,” Cedric finished, carding a hand through his combed hair. “It wasn’t fair of us to just leave you by yourself, unless.” He stopped, glancing at Harry with an uncertainty, even timidity, that he had never shown before. “Unless…you didn’t want to go with us? Which is fine, by the way, no big deal—“

            Harry suppressed a laugh as Cedric babbled and Cho rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. “It’s ok, you guys,” he said, finding it surprisingly easy to talk to them tonight. Maybe he had become immune to their dashing good looks at last. “It would’ve been, er, nice to go with you. But it’s not like a huge thing, y’know? I’m having a good time, really, I am.”

            He said it mostly to convince himself it was true.

            Cedric frowned while Cho raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Are you sure?” she asked, piercing him with those dark eyes of hers, and Harry found it hard to form words; so much for being immune. “Look, Harry, we can definitely hang out with you another time. D’you want to clean up the Shrieking Shack maybe? I’ve been learning a lot from Ravenclaw’s resident naturalist, she’s really quite sweet actually, and anyway. If you want to, um, go on another adventure, I’m game.”

            Cedric nodded, hair flowing with him in perfect arcs. Harry let a small sigh escape from his chest; these two were just too much, all the time. “Yes, what Cho said. Seriously, we’re not dating or anything, we just came to the ball as friends. But the important thing is that you’re our friend too, yeah? We don’t want to do things without you.”

            They were both looking at him now, with a level of scrutiny and care that Harry had no reference for. He swallowed. “Uh, yeah. I’m up for going to the Shrieking Shack sometime soon. And thanks. For this whole…friendship thing.”

            Cedric beamed, but Cho still looked like someone had said that the Tutshill Tornados were bound to lose the championship. “Harry, lighten up, it’s the Yule Ball! You look like you’ve got the morbs or something.”

            Harry frowned. “What-- ?”

            “D’you want to dance with us?”

            Everything stopped.

            Cedric clapped a hand to his mouth.

            Cho and Harry stared at him in shock. The rest of the world was starting to become more apparent; Harry heard so many dresses and suits swishing against the floor, endless streams and snippets of chatter, clinking glasses, colors everywhere--

            “What I mean,” Cedric coughed, tugging at his sleeves, “Is. Uh. If you’re feeling down, maybe a dance can cheer you up.” He stuck his hand out awkwardly, like he was reaching for a door only to realize that it was the wrong one at the last second. “Do you, um, want to? Dance, I mean.”

            Cho looked at Harry expectantly, tapping her fingers against her sides.

            Harry felt like a pixie had taken residence in his stomach, insides fluttering about like mad, and all he could do was stand there and feel his heart run a marathon. “Um—“

            “Harry, there you are!”

            The three of them broke apart (when had they gotten so close?) as Ron grabbed Harry’s shoulder urgently, tugging him away. “We’ve got to go!”

            “Alright,” Harry croaked, giving one final glance at Cedric and Cho’s crestfallen faces. “See you later.”

            Cho waved while Cedric mumbled, “Bye, Harry,” as Ron led Harry away.

            Later, once they had eavesdropped on Hagrid and Madame Maxine and the ball was winding down, Harry discovered that he couldn’t shake a heavy weight in his chest. Even after Ron and Hermione’s fight, he couldn’t not feel it. It was like he had eaten too much, or as if his chest was squeezed by chains. What was it? Maybe—

            “Can you believe the nerve of her?” Ron fumed, pacing up and down the empty common room, fists balled in anger. “She’s got to be right all the time, hasn’t she, the show-off—“

            “Ron, I think you should have asked her right away, and not as a last resort. Hermione wins this one, mate.”

            Ron froze mid-step, utterly gob-smacked. “Harry, you can’t be serious. Did you even _hear_ the bullocks she was going on about-- ?”

            “I did,” Harry replied, too tired to deal with Ron’s blustering rage, “And I reckon that you should have told her that you wanted to go to the ball with her. Be honest, y’know? Anyway, I’m off to bed.”

            He left Ron rooted to the spot in the middle of the common room, and it wasn’t until he collapsed on his bed that Harry realized that perhaps he should have taken his own advice.

TWELVE

9 Worrying Things [A List Complied by Harry Potter, written at 2:30 am on New Year’s Day]:

  1.      The Second Task.
  2.      Actually going to the prefect’s bathroom and following Cedric’s advice.
  3.      Sirius.
  4.      Siriously, where is he? How is he? When will he write back, and can his advice not be so…Grim?



     ~~(Ha.)~~

  1.      The old house. Voldemort. Pettigrew. A flash of green.
  2.      Nightmares.
  3.      Karkaroff? Snape? Mr. Crouch?
  4.      Cedric and Cho. Not scary, but they’re both so. Weird? Cedric is a good bloke. He knows how to play fair. Good Seeker too, despite his size. Nice arms. Cho is funny and an excellent Seeker and likes the Tornados. Smart. Pretty hair. Both have award-winning smiles. But what’s that got to do with anything? Why are they so good-looking all the time, is it just some soulmate bullshit? Or what if…Shit.
  5.      Fancying them isn’t bad, is it? No. No, it’s fine, it’s perfectly normal. Hermione said that this happens with lots of soulmates. It’s ok. Fancying them is ok. It can’t be worse than Voldemort.



 

~~Shit. Bugger. Fuck it all.~~

 

~~Fancying them is worse.~~

           

 

           

           

           

                       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, thank you so much for reading! if anything is inaccurate and/or offensive when it comes to Harry and Pravati's outfits at the Yule Ball, anything else, feel free to let me know in whatever way you're cool with, and I will edit accordingly. Thanks!
> 
> Also: I am without Internet access for a week, so the next chapter will be a bit behind. It will happen though; I'm not afraid of toil. :)


	5. The Shrieking Shack Squad Reunites, Interlude #2, and The Second Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST, THE NEXT CHAPTER IS UP. Thank you all so much for sticking with this, for leaving wonderful kudos and comments, and I am so excited to keep writing more for this fic!

THIRTEEN

            It wasn’t like Harry couldn’t talk to Hermione and Ron about things like Hagrid being outed as half giant, or Ludo Bagman attempting to bribe him, or the fiasco with the late-night bath in the prefects’ quarters; they did, in fact, have many discussions about all of these events. Most of them ended with Ron theorizing about Snape and Bagman while Hermione planned to catch the barely-a-reporter in the act while asking, “Have you figured out the Second Task yet?”

            Harry didn’t want to think about the Second Task, or how he was nearly caught near the prefects’ bath, or how Ludo Bagman wanted to help him win the Tournament, but he did want to talk about them with people who weren’t Ron and Hermione. Much as he loved them and needed their opinions, sometimes Harry needed a break.

            So he found himself in the Shrieking Shack after class, helping Cho set the loose floorboards in place while Cedric patched up a three-legged, wobbly table with some complicated Transfiguration.

            The Shack had spare, old furniture. Nearly everything was torn, tattered, and in decay; the whole house was gutted. The air tingled with traces of long-ago horror, like hearing screams from far away. Cedric shivered as a draft blew in through a small hole in the wall, snowflakes sticking to his hair. Harry saw Cho suppress a grin; he might look like an outdoorsman, with the flannel and the hiking boots he had borrowed from his Muggleborn friend, but Cedric was no handyman. He asked, “D’you—d’you guys want to leave, maybe? I reckon we’ve done enough fixing up for the day.”

            Cho paused in her floorboard setting, looking up at Cedric with a furrowed brow. Her fingers curled tightly around her hammer, tool belt swishing as she turned. She’d insisted on using as little magic as possible, refuting their doubtful glances with the argument, “My mother is a contractor and my father is an architect for the Ministry. I know how to fix things up the Muggle and magic way.” She responded to Cedric in a no-nonsense, firm voice, but her lips twitched in a grin. “This is one of the only times all of us are free, and we haven’t even been here long. Let’s just stay for a bit, it’s not like anything is going to hurt us here.” Her words thawed the cold, and Cedric relaxed slightly, still tensing whenever the house groaned and shook.

            Harry nodded, feeling a lump in his throat as he thought of Professor Lupin spending long nights in this empty, sad little house. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

            Cedric jumped when a spider scuttled across the floor, and Harry had to himself from laughing. “Hey, Cedric, it’s ok to be scared, but this place…it’s just a house.”

            Cedric sent him a wobbly smile, clearly trying to steady himself and taking slow breaths. The chewed-off chair leg started to attach itself to its rightful place. Cho, satisfied with the newly-fastened floorboards, stood up on knobbly knees and brushed the dust off of her frayed jeans, rolling up her pants to reveal orange knee socks. “How about we just talk about each other’s days, y’know? So, I’ve been alright. Flitwick has really been stressing the O.W.L.S. lately, but every professor’s been doing that since the start of the year. I’m getting a bit nervous for that. And my parents keep sending me owls asking if I’m safe, because they worry about me and everything, and it’s making me feel more nervous. But it’s not so bad; Michael’s found really old wizard comic books from the 1960s from the Ravenclaw Tower stash, and Marrietta helps because she always knows what to say. And—“ her face turned bright red—“-- and she likes—this sounds so silly but—she likes romance novels and detective books too. Also, Anthony Goldstein is hosting a debate tournament soon, that should be fun. How’ve you two been?”

            After a pause, Cedric leaned against the side of the house, looking at the snow dusting the ground outside through the grimy window. “Yeah, O.W.L.S. are tough, but as long as you study you’ll be fine.” A smile found its way across his face, crinkling his eyes. “No judgement about the books or the comics, I like dancing to bagpipes and I still have the stuffed unicorn I got when I was six or something. My day has been….good. I’ve got a handle on the Second Task, which is a relief; I reckon I’m finally prepared for this thing. My mate Zoe’s getting really good at being a Chaser, she’s a real asset to the team. Prefect duties can be pretty dull, but last night’s rounds were fun because I got to sneak into the kitchens for some midnight pasties.”

            Harrry had given up on the stubbornly loose floorboard by now; he didn’t have Cedric’s Transfiguration skills or Cho’s talent with a drill and hammer. He breathed in the sharp, frosty air. “My day’s been, well. Long. Y’know that Skeeter article about Hagrid? I reckon it’s rubbish, and then—Cedric, I took your advice, but I ran into some trouble afterwards, and Bagman tried to bribe me, but I didn’t accept, and—“

            Cho held up a gloved hand, ponytail shaking as she smiled softly. “Harry, you have the habit of launching into things and expecting us to know what’s going on. And I’m smart, but I don’t know everything. D’you mind explaining this all to us?”

            Cedric nodded, brushing his hair out of his face. “Sorry, but if you want to tell us about things, you’re going to have to tell us everything.”

            Harry felt his throat dry up. “Er. Everything?”

            Cedric laughed, the sound reverberating throughout the house. He smiled fondly. “Harry. Harry, I was joking.”

            Cho giggled, face flushed from the cold and work. “Please, Harry. Explain this thrilling tale.”

            Harry tried to tell them what was going on as best he could without making them panic. To Cho and Cedric’s credit, they were good listeners, though by the end of the stories they looked slightly ill.

            Cho coughed. “Wow, so. Um. You had a really long day.”

            Cedric murmured in agreement. “You always seem to get into the thick of it all, don’t you?”

            Harry exhaled, relieved that he didn’t have to explain anything else. “Yeah, I guess so.”

            “I reckon,” Cedric started, clearing his throat, “that Rita Skeeter should be dealt with, I’m serious. People need to know the truth about things, not just some—some hyperbolic rubbish that only paints one picture! I like Hagrid just fine; nothing is going to change that. But I’d hate to see him leave Hogwarts because of one bloody article.”

            Harry laughed bitterly. “That’s the power of the press for you.”

            Cho nodded in agreement, wiping an angry tear away. Her voice was low and cold. “ _The Daily Prophet_ is backed by the Ministry, it’s no wonder it’s full of nonsense. They write for the wizarding masses, people with fickle attention spans and prejudices that span hundreds of years. I’ve got a cousin who worked there, and they hated it. Frankly, I’d be surprised if Skeeter hadn’t written anything on Hagrid being what he is. She has the power to keep them coming back for more, wanting to read the next bit of lurid rubbish.”

            Cedric clenched his jaw and glared at the tear in the armchair. “You can’t have power without accountability. There needs to be justice.”

            He looked so intense, with his rigid stance and balled fists and stony eyes, that even Harry was a bit taken aback.  “I hate Skeeter too, but there’s not much to be done, is there? If you want to talk about injustice, you should meet with Hermione about SPEW and stuff. She’s very… persistent about getting new members.” _She won’t stop hounding Ron and I about it_ , is what he didn’t say.

            Cedric nodded absently, fiddling with the buttons of his friend’s flannel. “Nothing to be done?” he muttered. “We’ll see. But,” he said in a clearer voice, “I would like to talk to her about SPEW, it seems like it could do some real good.”

Harry was about to say more, but Cho said, “I would join this SPEW thing, but I’m busy enough as it is. And we should go back to school; supper will be soon, and I’m famished.”

After a few minutes of gathering supplies, buttoning coats, and tying loose bootlaces, Harry, Cho, and Cedric faced the darkening sky together. Harry didn’t even notice they were holding hands until they reached the bottom of the hill, wind and sleet battering them all and nearly rendering his glasses useless.

            They let go of each others’ gloved and mittened hands as soon as they reached Hogsmeade, but Cho and Cedric were practically glued to his side the rest of the walk back. “It’s necessary,” Cedric mumbled gruffly on his right, eyes squinting ahead.

            “We need to keep warm,” Cho added on his left, teeth chattering as her tools clinked together as she walked.      

            Harry felt strangely calm; Sirius’s warnings kept barraging his brain, but with Cho and Cedric he felt safe for the first time in-- well. A long time.

            The entrance to the Great Hall exuded warmth and light, and the three of them trudged towards it like moths to a flame. Cedric left them quickly, stomach roaring, nose running, as he rushed inside. “Thanks, Cho, thanks, Harry! I won’t tell anyone about this stuff, and I’ll see you soon! I’ll try to get in touch with Hermione, and good luck on the Second Task!” His breath whirled in the air as he loped on.

            “He seems to be in a hurry,” Harry remarked, feeling left behind as Cedric disappeared amongst the fast-forming crowd of hungry students.

            Cho’s eyes twinkled in the light of the Great Hall. She wiped her nose. “I reckon he’s a bit frightened of the Shrieking Shack still. This wasn’t exactly good weather, either.”

            Harry shrugged. “I s’pose.”

            After a brief moment of warming up and staring longingly at the plates, Cho asked tentatively, “Hey, Harry, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and…why did Professor Moody take your map?”

            Harry blinked, too busy looking for Ron and Hermione to pay attention. “Sorry, what?”

            Cho’s frown deepened, looking too worried for supper as students laughed at and bemoaned the weather in equal measure. “Why did Professor Moody take your map? Last night, I mean.”

            Harry shrugged. “I dunno, he said he needed it. Probably spying on Karkaroff or something. He used to be a Death Eater, you know. He might have been the one to put my name in that bloody Goblet.”

            Cho looked at her gloves. “Yes, but. Something feels wrong about the whole thing. Professor Moody can be—sometimes, he doesn’t seem safe. I don’t know if what he did was right. Just—“

            “Hey, Harry! Get over here, you’re going to miss dinner!”

            Harry grinned as Ron shouted over to him, only too happy to find his friends. He said a hasty, “Bye, Cho!” and found a seat by Ron and Hermione as quickly as possible.

            It was only when he was polishing off dessert did Cho’s worry hit him:

            _He doesn’t seem safe._

_I don’t know if that was the right thing to do._

            Guilt made the toffee pudding look unappetizing; he hadn’t even said a proper goodbye.

            When he got into bed, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Cho was right.

            What _if_ Moody had taken the map for a dangerous reason?

            But—no.

            Dumbledore trusted Moody, and as long as that trust remained, Harry would be perfectly safe.

            He had to be.

 

FOURTEEN

            It was getting easier to admit to himself that he fancied Cho and Cedric. Ron teased him about it, sure, and Hermione looked at him condescendingly over whatever book she was analyzing, but he found himself laughing and blushing along with them. He no longer felt his stomach perform intense acrobatic feats every time he saw either of them, and he could string words together as opposed to chopping them up and serving them on a slippery, chipped platter.

            He fancied Cho and Cedric.

            There were worse things to feel about somebody.

            Accepting the truth of the situation was not only useful, it was necessary; with the Second Task drawing nearer, another chance for someone to harm him on the horizon, it was essential that his heart didn’t race and his hands remain steady whenever he caught a glimpse of Cho whispering playfully with her friends, or when he noticed Cedric eyeing Madam Pince awkwardly as his mates let loose muffled snickers. He needed to keep his focus on surviving the Second Task.

            Besides, it wasn’t like Harry wanted to snog them or anything like that, and he certainly didn’t want them all to become an _item_. No, he was just fine fancying them from afar. 

            Harry smiled to himself as he skimmed through _Merpeople and Magic;_ being friends with Cho and Cedric was more than enough.

FIFTEEN

            They were standing on the edge of the dock.

            Krum kept muttering something in Bulgarian under his breath, looking at the deep black of the lake and nothing else, feet shuffling clumsily.

            Fleur cursed in French and performed last-minute stretches, eyes darting to the cheering crowd every few seconds.

            Cedric kept tapping his wand against his leg, eyes shut, breathing rapidly. “Good luck,” he whispered through his chattering teeth, though no one quite knew whom he was addressing.

            Harry felt the gillyweed squelch and squish in his hand as the wind picked up. He tried not to think about all the other instances where Dobby had tried to help him, and hoped that this time, it wouldn’t end with Skele-Gro or drowning at the bottom of the lake.

            He couldn’t bear to look behind at the swelling, chanting crowd, but he knew that Cho was betting on him and Cedric (“I did well last time, didn’t I? You’ll both win, I know you will,”) and Ron and Hermione were—actually, where _were_ they, Harry hadn’t seen them at breakfast-- 

            BANG.

            Dumbledore’s ceremonial wand blast rang through the air, and as the other three champions dove into the lake, Harry felt a large hand clamp onto his shoulder—it was Moody—his voice growled, “Don’t forget the plant, Potter,” and suddenly, he was shoved into the lake.

            His body froze in shock—it was so _cold_ and _dark_ and he couldn’t _breathe_ —

            Harry shoved the gillyweed into his mouth and struggled to swim as his lungs burned and his legs kicked out helplessly. Everything was going dark, and his head was pounding, but then—

            Harry gasped for air, and his body filtered the water like it was oxygen. Harry grasped at his neck and felt _gills._ The gillyweed had given him gills, and—he blinked—webbed hands and feet.

            He would have laughed if he wasn’t in a hurry; the golden egg had said that something precious was at the bottom of the lake, and he had wasted enough time as it was.

            Harry promised to thank Dobby later as he shot down towards the bottom of the lake, shouting a garbled, “ _Lumos_!” as he began his rapid descent.

            He plunged deeper and deeper into the lake until he was diving through an enormous underwater forest, long grasses tangling onto his legs as he fought to swim through them.

He struggled to keep his wand’s light in front of him, trying to see what was coming, when suddenly, he heard it: The distant, haunting sound of merpeople song. Harry kicked forward with more determination, trying to sweep the forest’s debris away as he strained to hear the familiar melody of the egg’s song.

            Then the grindylows grabbed his ankles.

            Suddenly, he was being thrashed from side to side as more swarmed at him and tried to pull him away. Thankfully, his wand hand was free, so he yelled, “ _Stupefy!”_ and gasped in relief as they froze, too Stunned to move. He swam away quickly—how long had it been, he only had an hour—until he was out of the forest at last.

            Harry barreled forward, the music getting louder and louder, until—

            He stopped short. There, a few meters in front of him, were Ron, Hermione, a little girl with Fleur’s hair, and Professor Sprout. They were suspended in the water, seemingly unconscious, and guarded by fierce-looking merpeople armed with large tridents. Harry ducked behind one of the boulders in front of the encampment and tried to think of a strategy that would get his friends away from the guards. Should he try to sneak in from behind? Rely on speed and surprise? Would spells even work on merpeople?

            Then Harry saw an enormous head of a crocodile swim above him, and his heart stopped. Its many teeth could slice his neck, and its reptilian eyes glinted in the murky water.

            He nearly collapsed in relief when he noticed that the crocodile head was attached to the body of none other than Viktor Krum (his disproportionately large chest and skinny legs gave him away), and Harry peered from behind the rock as he watched the head growl something at the merpeople, who parted and allowed him to grab Hermione and jet away towards the surface.

            Harry nearly shouted, “Let go of her!” but he had a feeling that Krum wouldn’t like that, so he focused on Ron instead, whose head lolled back; it almost sounded like he was snoring.

            He didn’t have much time to observe the scene more before Cedric appeared from the opposite end of the lake, his head covered in some kind of giant bubble. Harry watched carefully as Cedric swam towards the merpeople, who also allowed him to approach the hostages. Cedric carefully wrapped his burly arms around Professor Sprout’s waist, and Harry could have sworn that he saw her hands pocket a small vial of something that looked bioluminescent as Cedric swam off.

            Harry waited for Fleur to come, expecting her to free who could only be her little sister, but she never came. Harry frowned as the minutes ticked by, and still, Fleur did not come.

            A cold chill ran down his spine as Harry felt his lungs itch for oxygen.

            It was now or never, and who knew what the merpeople would do to the little girl if Fleur never showed up? Their tridents were bone-white, and their eyes were small and empty, like a shark’s.

            Harry dove out from behind the craggy boulder and approached the guards, who let him get to Ron. Harry grabbed Ron’s hand and tugged him away from the spot he was suspended in. As soon as the guards turned away, tridents pointing at some strange fish darting towards them, Harry grabbed Fleur’s little sister in his other hand and kicked away as fast as he could, his lungs burning even more. He started feeling his toes instead of flippers.

            Time was running out; the gillyweed would only last him an hour, no more, no less.

            Harry gripped both Ron and the girl as he swam towards the surface, gasping for air that wasn’t there, when the grindylows attacked again.

            Their clawed hands were much stronger this time, and there were even more of them, scraping at his legs and arms and his passengers. They pulled him away from the shimmering, life-giving surface with overwhelming force.

            The world started going dark. Harry felt the gills start to shrink on his neck, lungs begging for air. Ron and Fleur’s sister started floating downward, dragged away by the grindylows.  For a moment, Harry let them sink.

            But through the haze of pain, Harry shot sparks out of his wand, scattering the grindylows away, their eyes bulging in pain. Hegrasped at Ron and the little girl as tight as he could.

            He was going up, up, up, far away from the monsters of the lake, gulping down water, when--     

            His head smashed through the surface seconds later, water droplets scattering around him like shards of glass.

            Harry swam as far as his aching body could carry him, Ron and the girl in tow, before being pulled onto the dock. Choking on water and shaking like mad, Harry had never felt less victorious in his life. First he had a late start, then he had waited for the other champions to arrive, and to top it off he had taken an extra person, surely against the rules—

            “Harry!”

            Harry was vaguely aware of a towel being wrapped around him, water still spewing out of his mouth, when the voice yelled again: “Harry, you did it!”

            Harry blinked the world back into focus to see Hermione crouching in front of him, securing the towel around his neck. “Hi, Hermione.”

            She hugged him briefly as everyone was rushing towards them, crowding the docks and gossiping about his “brave and bold” or “foolish and illegal” gamble. Harry was just glad that Ron was spluttering to life next to him, blinking in confusion at all of the people looking at him. Fleur Delacour shoved her way through the crowd, gasping, “’Arry Potter! You saved Gabrielle, you saved my soulmate, _merci_ , _merci beaucoup—“_

She looked at her sister like she was the only one in the world who mattered, and Fleur  hugged her tight as Gabrielle fluttered awake, whispering frantic French into her older sister’s ear.

            Ron looked at Harry, dazed, and asked, “What the bloody hell is going on? Why—why you’d grab an extra hostage?”

            Harry shook his head, bone-weary, and mumbled, “Best listen to Hermione, mate.”

            Hermione started launching into a play-by-play analysis of the events, from Cedric coming out of the lake first to Fleur getting attacked by an entire horde of grindylows and forfeiting the task to waking up and listening to Krum explain the situation, face reddening under Ron’s scrutiny.

            But Harry didn’t pay much attention to that, because Cho was pushing her way through the throng. Cedric was close behind, heading away from a cheerful Professor Sprout, who was chatting away with Neville about “a newly discovered species of aquatic plant life,” right as rain.

            “Harry,” Cho said sternly as she finally got close enough, tear-tracks drying on her face, hair tossed in the wind. “That was one of the most reckless things I’ve ever seen anyone do, but—“

            “You did good,” Cedric coughed thickly, coming up behind Cho, staring at the soggy dock beneath them. For his part, Harry tried not to look at Cedric’s bare chest; he was still in his swim trunks. “I should have gone back, you did the right thing no matter what anyone else says—“

            “Next time,” Cho interrupted, looking less frazzled as Harry sat up, shaking water out of his ears, “Please warn me in advance if you’re going to do anything like that ever again, alright?”

            He should have been too drained to laugh, but Harry grinned and laughed anyway, wrapping the towel tighter around him as more people started eagerly looking his way. “I’ll do my best.”

            Hermione, finished catching Ron up to speed, rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you will, Harry. Hello, Cho, hello, Cedric, by the way. Good job on getting out of the lake first, I suppose.”

            Ron nodded in their direction, slicking his hair back as a cameras flashed at them. “’Sup, you two. No hard feelings—“ he jabbed a finger at Cedric—“but I’m cheering for Harry.”

            Cedric shrugged, ducking his head, and Harry could have sworn he muttered something that sounded like, “Me too.”

            Cho rocked back and forth on her heels, squinting at the press box above them, where Dumbledore, Karkarroff, Madame Maxine, and Bagman were discussing the scores. “I bet too many Galleons on this to lose,” she whispered, “And I don’t even bet, normally. You two—you’re going to win, I know it.”

            “ _Attention!”_ Dumbledore’s amplified voice roared throughout the crowd, silencing reporters, professors, and students alike. “Thank you,” he rumbled, and Harry heard more than saw his smile. “Now that all of the champions and their rescued persons are accounted for, it is time to announce the winners of the Second Task. In first place—“ the crowd didn’t dare breathe, Harry included—“is Cedric Diggory, for performing a remarkably durable Bubble-Head Charm and for getting out of the lake with Professor Sprout ahead of all the other champions.”

            The sea of yellow-and-black erupted in wild cheers, chants of “ _Digg-ory! Digg-ory!”_ nearly blocking out Karkaroff’s announcement. “In second place,” he boomed, voice gravelly and stiff, “Is Viktor Krum, whose expert Transfiguration abilities allowed him to dominate the Task, ridiculous bubble or not.”

            “Third place,” Madame Maxine intoned over the angry shouts from the Hufflepuffs and roars of approval from Durmstrang students, “Is Fleur Delacour, who bravely fought against more than a dozen grindylows in a surprise attack.”

            Harry’s heart sank as more cheers and groans shook the crowd. Was he really in last place? Ron started cursing the judges, fist shaking in the air, while Hermione looked about ready to debate with the entire crowd. Cho looked stricken, angrily muttering under her breath, while Cedric frowned and clenched his jaw, seemingly unfazed by his House’s support.

            “After much deliberation and spirited discussion,” Dumbledore said, and everything was quiet again, “Harry Potter is awarded a tie for first with Cedric Diggory, for the creative use of gillyweed, for getting to the merpeople before any of the other champions, and for risking his own safety to save not one, but two companions.”

            For a moment, the crowd was silent, absorbing the news.

            Harry’s ears were ringing. It couldn’t be true. _First place? Tied with Cedric? How-- ?_

Then the entire block of Gryffindors stood and cheered, chanting everything from his name to joyous obscenities, while Ron and Hermione helped him to his feet, saying excitedly, “First place! You got first place!”

            Cho looked about ready to faint from relief and happiness, shouting, “I won! I won the bet! I knew you two would be brilliant!”

            Cedric grinned at him and yelled to the audience, “Hogwarts champions win the Second Task!”

            The Hogwarts crowd cheered even louder.

            Harry was still shivering from the cold, teeth chattering, heart racing with adrenaline, and Ron and Hermione were shoved against him as reporters tried to crowd them in. He flinched reflexively every time a camera flashed at his face, and he tried to hide himself with the towel as much as possible.

           Still, with Ron and Hermione next to him, and Cho and Cedric standing in front of him, all of them beaming, all of them happy, Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit pleased as well.

           Dobby was going to get the best pair of socks he could find.

           

 

           

 

           

           

           


	6. Rita Skeeter Strikes Again, Fantasy of a Family, and Dobby Gets New Socks

SIXTEEN

        Harry had been looking forward to having a pleasant breakfast; tomorrow was Friday, and he finally felt freed from the pressure of the tournament, at least for the moment.

        Then Sirius’s owl nearly dive-bombed into his plate of toast and bacon, thrusting its letter-bound leg out with the air of someone who was too busy and frazzled to care about dignity.

        “So? Hermione asked, looking up from her poached eggs. “What does the letter say?”

         Harry scanned the Great Hall quickly; he didn’t want anyone overhearing. “It says,” he muttered, nearly whispering as he read the crumpled parchment, “That he wants to meet us right outside of Hogsmeade tomorrow, around noon. Oh, and he wants lots of food.”

         The brown owl shook its wings slightly, scattering Harry’s toast-crumbs onto his lap, and settled on top of Harry’s napkin, next to his plate.

         Ron nodded eagerly, oblivious to his friend’s plight; the attention he had gotten for his role in the Second Task had buoyed his spirits considerably. People looked at _him_ with admiration for once. “Yeah, that’d be brilliant! I reckon Mum was gonna send me some food and pasties tonight anyway, we could always bring them to Sir—Snuffles, I mean.”

         Hermione tutted at Ron’s slip-up, and set her silverware down carefully and neatly. “Yes, it would be good to see _Snuffles_ again. I’d like to ask him about Winky.”

         Ron snorted. “The one we saw after the attack at the Cup and threw a fit when you started blabbering on about SPEW rubbish?”

         Hermione stiffened and raised her chin indignantly. “Yes, Ron. Winky, Crouch’s former house elf. The one he had _enslaved_ and _abused_ for who knows how long.”

         Ron ignored her and nudged Harry with his elbow. “C’mon, mate, I know you’re sick of the SPEW bullocks too.”

         Harry looked at his half-eaten slice of toast and munched meditatively on his last piece of bacon. Siriu’s owl looked at him with golden, disdainful eyes. _Piss off_ , Harry thought, and after a moment the owl looked away, apparently ready for a quick snooze.

        “I dunno,” Harry said slowly, the bacon scratching his dried throat as he swallowed. He sipped his warm pumpkin juice gingerly, staring into his glass. As the liquid soothed his sore throat (he’d gotten a bit of a cold from the lake), he thought about the book Cho had gotten him, _Magic Around the World: A Comprehensive Study in South Asia_ by Dr. Anya Bhat, PhD. He’d had more time to read it now that he wasn’t so focused on the Tasks; every night, just before bed, he would light his wand and read a few pages before falling asleep.

       The long introduction had stated that the author’s mother had been a witch while her father had been an ordinary professor. She was born in India, attended school at Hogwarts, and eventually went back to Delhi, where her parents lived, to obtain her PhD in Social Psychology from the Indraprastha College for Women, all while fostering a passion for magical history. In other words, Dr. Bhat was quite an accomplished witch; Harry was sure Hermione would like her.

        He had just reached the part where Dr. Bhat examined how British colonialism had affected India’s magical and Muggle (or _Magalū_ , in anglicized Hindi) communities alike. Harry learned about the Benghal Famine of 1770, the Great Uprising of 1857, the Dandi March, and how British wizards had built “Little Hogwartses,” in tiny villages and large cities, the slogans shamelessly preaching, “The right kind of student can learn the right kind of magic.” English was mandatory. Suits and skirts were the required uniform. Wands were distributed at random.

        Harry had never been one for history (Professor Binns had seen to that), but he couldn’t help but be enthralled by this thrilling, heartbreaking tale of resistance and exploitation. He thought about his father’s family in the photo album, all of them wearing their traditional clothes and smiling despite everything. He thought, in their own small way, that they had been revolutionaries too.

        Harry finally finished his pumpkin juice and leaned back on his stool, careful not to tip over, while Ron stared at him bemusedly, waiting for an answer. Harry thought about words like _enslaved_ and _abused_. He wasn’t quite sure where to start, or how to translate this fierce, burning feeling in his chest, so he asked, “Did Cedric ever join SPEW?”

         Ron stared. “What’re you on about?”

         Harry squeezed his eyes shut and felt his ears redden. “I just—I’m curious. Did Cedric ever join SPEW?”

         Hermione shook her head, looking just as startled as Ron. “Er…no, actually, I’ve only seen him when he’s surrounded by his horde of friends. Seems a bit preoccupied to focus on elfish freedom, if you ask me. Why do you ask?”

         Harry shrugged, raising his eyes to meet Hermione’s brown ones. “I think that he could be a real asset to SPEW, is all,” he said as nonchalantly as possible, “I think he could offer some interesting perspective on this whole thing. Also…also, I’m not sure you should keep making Winky socks.”

          Ron gaped at him, eyes wide in bewilderment. “Mate, are you alright?”

          Hermione drew herself up even more, back straight, eyes flashing. “Do you _want_ Winky to continue living as a—as a slave? Do you want her to go the rest of her life believing she is inferior and undeserving of freedom? I don’t care if Winky is upset, no one should be treated that way. It’s the right thing to do, setting her free, whether she wants to or not!”

          Harry felt that scalding feeling in his chest bubble over. “I get it, ok? You want house elves to be treated better, and they definitely should be, but you shouldn’t treat Winky or any other house-elf as—as some sort of little kid who doesn’t know any better, alright? You should listen to her. Winky knows a lot more about being a house-elf than you do. Also—“ he drew in a ragged breath—“Just because you think she’s wrong doesn’t mean that you should shove socks on her feet and be done with it. That kind of stuff….it takes a long time to sink in. I—please. Listen to her.”

         For once, Hermione was silent. Ron let his fork clatter to the floor, utterly speechless.

         After staring at Sirius’s sleeping owl for an eternity, Harry started in surprise when Hermione said, “I’ll make sure Cedric joins SPEW.”

        Harry frowned. “What about—“

        “We’ll talk to Sirius about everything else tomorrow.”

        Harry nodded; the discussion was closed. He grabbed the extra parchment in his robe’s pocket from last night’s Potion essay and hastily scribbled _Yes, see you later Snuffles_ , to Sirius. Avoiding Ron’s gaze and Hermione’s upturned nose, he tied the torn parchment to the brown owl, who was too groggy to bite him this time.

        As the owl fluttered away, Ron threw his napkin to the side as egg dribbled onto his robes, demanding, “Since when do you give a Flobberworm’s arse about SPEW?”

        Harry deflated, elbows sinking into the counter. “Look, I’ve just been thinking about it a lot, ok? That’s it.”

       “But—“

        “I said that’s it,” Harry snapped, not wanting to explain himself. Not yet, anyway.

        Ron ducked his head, cheeks almost as red as his hair.

       They finished breakfast in tense silence.

        Just as they were about to head to class, a large spotted owl descended upon them, gracefully depositing a newspaper on the table as it took off to land on the shoulder of one giggling Pansy Parkinson.

        Harry unrolled the _Witch Weekly_ paper carefully, conscious of Ron leaning over his shoulder and Hermione edging towards them, eyes wide in surprise.

        The front page had a huge, heart-shaped photo of him and Hermione reading in the library before the Second Task, the headline blaring in lurid scarlet ink:

**_Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache_ **

****

         The article, written by Rita Skeeter of course, detailed how Harry Potter, “a stringy, odd, yet extraordinary boy” felt a fiendishly strong “adolescent attraction” to the “bushy-haired-but-plain” Hermione Granger. Skeeter continued to explain that because Harry was “deprived of his late parents’ love,” he was destined “to fall for girls as unremarkable as Miss Granger.” The article even speculated that Hermione brewed her own Love Potions to “lure Potter into her web of deceit and unnatural romance.”

        “Wow,” Hermione smirked, turning away from the article demurely as she adjusted the strap of her book bag. “Rita’s really losing her touch.”

         Ron looked ready to scatter the remains of the headline to the wind, jaw clenched, face blotchy. “Why is she so bloody terrible? She’s made you out to be a—a scarlet woman! And Harry is not stringy and odd! And—“ he spluttered, pointing one accusatory finger at the article while Hermione mouthed, “ _Scarlet woman?”_ as she giggled through her fingers, “you two aren’t—you’re not—not like _that_ —“

           Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry as Ron looked so worked up, so blustering and nervous. “Ron,” he said, trying his best to join in on Hermione’s laughter, “Hermione is my friend.”

           Ron’s throat bobbed as he nodded rapidly, shoulders still hunched. Hermione grinned at him and said breezily, “Ron, it’s Rita Skeeter. She writes anything that will get her name on the front page.”

          “Yeah,” Ron agreed, red fading from his face. “You’re right.” He still glared daggers at the magazine.

          “I’m going to find out how she got a picture of us in the library, of all places, and she’s going to pay for everything she’s done,” Hermione swore, no longer laughing. She marched past them, calling over her shoulder, “C’mon, we’re going to be late!”

           As Ron, looking relieved, strode up beside her, Harry hung back for a moment. He glanced around the students exiting the Great Hall, from Malfoy and his gaggle of Slytherins who gleefully shared the article with their friends to Parvati crumpling the paper with a roll of her eyes, until he saw them: Cho, biting her lip, _Witch Weekly_ tucked under her arm as she followed her friends, muttering under her breath. Cedric, stopping one of his Housemates from giving the paper to someone else, looking worried and outraged.

           Harry caught up to Hermione and Ron eventually, trying very hard not to worry about anything Rita Skeeter wrote. It didn’t change anything.

           Right?

SEVENTEEN

           Harry started missing Sirius as soon as they left his cave. Already, he was committing Padfoot’s shaggy tail-wagging and Sirius’s gaunt, genuine smile to memory. He catalogued his godfather’s teeth gnashing into the chicken and other food Mrs. Weasley had inadvertently provided, how his bony knuckles whitened as he spoke of Barty Crouch, how eager he seemed when he spoke to them, how he looked years younger when he hugged Harry and ruffled his hair, eyes bright and alive.

           Harry knew that he had other things to consider, like how Crouch had sentenced his own son to Azkaban, how Karkaroff was a Death Eater, and that Crouch hadn’t shown up to work or Hogwarts in weeks, sending messages through Percy. But as rain started drizzling onto the dirt road and the bright midday sun became blotted by clouds, as the sky turned the color of one of Aunt Petunia’s oldest dresses that he always had to iron, Harry just wished Sirius was cleared of his charges and that they could be a proper family.

            He wanted Sirius to be around when Dark wizards weren’t out to kill him. He wanted to know what Sirius ate for breakfast, if they both liked the same kind of classes at Hogwarts, if he disliked chores as much as he did, if he had a soulmate, and could give some good advice about having one. He was going to tell Sirius about Cho and Cedric, but everything was Crouch and Voldemort and death, so Harry thought it best not to bring such a frivolous topic up for discussion; whenever he’d ask the Dursleys about soulmates, they’d send him to bed without supper.

            As they walked down the muddying road to Gladrags to get socks for Dobby, Hermione held her head high in triumph, still reveling in Sirius’s approval of her interest in Winky. Ron talked about sending a letter to Percy to ask about Crouch, chattering on about what could have happened to the absent Department Head.

            Harry closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like to live with Sirius in a house that didn’t have cupboards under the stairs.

 

 

EIGHTEEN

            They had all thought that by Monday, the _Witch Weekly_ article would have blown over, like most gossip did, but at breakfast a rather peevish screech owl unceremoniously dropped a smoking envelope into Hermione’s lap.

            Despite Ron’s protest, she gingerly opened the unaddressed letter, wincing as some sort of oozing slime stuck to her fingers as she lifted the letter out of the envelope. She read it aloud, voice strained as her fingers started swelling: “ _Harry Potter is an innocent young man, do not corrupt his pure, delicate soul with such vile sorcery, you foul heathen temptress!”_

Ron quickly passed his napkin to Hermione as she let go of the letter, desperate to get the bubbling slime off of her burning hands. She gave him a quick glance in gratitude while he huffed, “Who’d write that pile of shite, Aunt Muriel? I wouldn’t put it past her, she’s as old-fashioned and arse-brained as they come—“

            Hermione laughed shakily, standing on unsteady legs as welts started forming on her fingers. “Thanks, Ron. I think—oh, bugger it all—I’m going to the hospital wing. Let—“ she clenched her jaw shut in pain—“Let the professors know what happened.”

            Ron scrambled to help her totter off to Madame Pomfrey while Harry gulped, “Yeah, I’ll go on to class and let Flitwick know.”

            He couldn’t believe that Skeeter’s article had gotten so much attention that Hermione, of all people, was getting hate mail for it. He rubbed his forehead angrily as he stalked to Charms. _Why is everyone so stupid about this sort of rubbish?_

            “Oh! Harry!”

            Harry stopped short; he was a step away from colliding with Cho.

            She peered at him carefully, like he had something on his face, before asking slowly, “Feeling alright?”

            Harry frowned, not in the mood to deal with people treating him like a doll. “Yes, I’m fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

            Cho ignored his increasing temper, not taking her eyes off his once. “Are you certain? Do you feel—oh, blast—do you feel light-headed, or a creeping sense of obsession with someone, or—“

            “Cho,” Harry breathed through his nostrils, trying to slow his breathing, “I have never taken a Love Potion in my life, and Hermione would be the last person to make one for me.”

            “But—“

            “I don’t care what sort of bullocks _Witch Weekly_ writes about, Hermione and I are just friends! I need to go to class to let Flitwick know that Hermione is in the hospital wing because someone sent her cursed mail, excuse me—“

            Cho stood her ground, still biting her lip in that infuriatingly adorable way of hers, and said, “I hope she’s alright, and I never thought that Skeeter’s article was true, and hate mail is awful, but Harry, you have to understand, Love Potions are dangerous! They take away your control, they cause real harm, and I’m sorry, but I had to be sure that you were ok.”

          “’M fine,” Harry muttered, feeling his anger dissipate slowly, coiling out of his balled fists. “You should be worrying about Hermione, not me.”

           “Harry—“

           “I have to go!”

           Cho nodded, flushing red as she stepped aside at last. “Promise me you’ll take Love Potions seriously, they’re—they’re some of the Darkest kinds of magic.”

           Harry wanted to rush past her, but something in her gaze made him stay put for a moment longer. “Yeah,” he said at last, “I will.”

           Cho smiled slightly. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but better safe than sorry. See you later.”

           She brushed past him, and the scent of flowers and ink clung to him for the entirety of Charms.

           Ron met him outside of class after getting Hermione settled, filling him in on the details of Hermione’s condition; she was to stay with Madam Pomfrey all day. Harry and Ron made sure to get her the work for all of her classes.

           The day was a whirl of taunts and jabs about him and Hermione, Hagrid introducing nifflers to Care of Magical Creatures, and worrying about the small pile of hate mail accumulating outside of the hospital wing when Harry and Ron finally had a chance to visit their friend.

           To their surprise, Hermione reading a small homemade card in her lap, decorated simply with smiley face stickers and Spice Girls lyrics.  “Cho stopped by,” she said, shaking her head bemusedly. “She gave me this. It—“ she smiled slightly despite her bandaged, foul-smelling hands—“It made me laugh.”

            Harry felt something warm grow inside his chest, and he found himself laughing at the obvious effort put into such a silly card. Of _course_ Cho would use the Spice Girls to cheer someone up.

            Madam Pomfrey shooed them out as soon as Harry and Ron gave Hermione all of the notes and homework she needed (well, _almost_ all of the notes; their parchments for History of Magic and Potions were either blank or illegible), and so they went to the kitchens to give Dobby his socks.

            Harry and Ron were quite proud of the socks they had chosen; they were hard to miss, garishly pink and orange, with striped and polka-dot patterns with little snitches hanging off the sides. By the time they traipsed into the kitchens and gave Dobby his present, the house-elf was beside himself, sobbing in joy as he hugged Harry and Ron with all his strength. “Th—thank you, Harry Potter, and his friend, Dobby is so grateful, so happy, so—“

           “’S’not that big of a deal,” Ron grinned, looking pleased as Dobby let go of him, gawking at his socks in wonder.

            Harry laughed as Dobby immediately put the new socks on over his old ones, and managed to say, “No problem, Dobby. Thank _you_ for giving me the gilly weed for the Second Task.”

            Dobby nodded, looking angelic in the bright kitchen light, smiling hugely, snot running down his crooked nose. “Harry Potter is too kind, too benevolent for such a cruel, cruel maze. He is far too good for that, Dobby is sure of it.”

           Harry was about to reassure him with, “It’s alright Dobby, thank you,” but. Wait a minute. “Did you—did you say _maze_?”

           Dobby’s already-bulging eyes widened, almost knocking himself in the head with his fist before stopping at the last second, smile vanishing off of his face. “Dobby wasn’t supposed to say that, Harry Potter. Dobby must go back to work, sir. Dobby must help Winky.”

           The elf scurried off before Harry could say a word.

           Ron muttered under his breath, “House-elves, about as helpful as Bludgers to the face. Or arm, I suppose.”

           Harry shushed him furiously, because Cedric had just entered the kitchens. “Hey, Cedric,” he called out as normally as possible, while Ron snickered into his robe’s sleeve.

           Cedric smiled tightly and loped over to them while house-elves ran around him, carrying plates of toffee and pumpkin pasties and other such snacks. “Harry,” he grunted. “That Skeeter article get you in any tight spots?”

           Harry shook his head. “Nah, but Hermione got cursed mail for it. She’s in the hospital wing and everything.”

           Cedric took a step back, raking a hand through his bangs. “Merlin’s beard, that’s terrible. That Skeeter woman, she’s going to get justice right quick—“

           “That’s what Hermione said too,” Ron interrupted, smirking slightly. “I reckon you should pay her a visit and talk. She wants you to join SPEW, you know.”

            Cedric’s eyes widened, unconsciously adjusting his yellow tie in thought. “Yes, of course.” He deftly picked a piece of toffee from one of the platters a house-elf offered, thanking the elf briefly. “I’ll stop by as soon as possible.”

            Harry couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, so he sent Ron a look that asked, _Why do you want Cedric in SPEW?_ to which Ron responded with a quirked eyebrow and a slight shrug of the shoulders, as if to say, _Might cheer her up, getting a member who actually cares._

            Harry shook his head while Cedric munched on his toffee, but then he remembered what Dobby had told him, and worry jolted through his veins. “Cedric, Dobby the house-elf mentioned a maze, and I think it’s got to do with the third task. What d’you reckon?”

           Cedric nearly choked on his toffee, but he managed to swallow it down after a few wheezes. “Actually, I was just by the Quidditch pitch, thinking about strategy for next year, and it looks like there are—well. Better come yourself.” He looked at Ron guiltily. “It’s—I think it’s for Champions only—“

           Ron held up his hands. “I gotta write Percy anyway. See you, Harry.”

           His eyes screamed, _You are telling me everything later._

           Harry nodded. _Of course._

           Harry left the kitchens with Cedric, and eventually they reached the Quidditch pitch, which—

           Wasn’t the Quidditch pitch.

           The smooth, snowless field was raised in strange places, and trenches were being dug with—Harry caught a flash of familiar fur—Hagrid’s nifflers. Sure enough, there were the beginnings of hedges being grown along the perimeter. “A maze,” he whispered. The sun had just started sinking, tinging the edges of the distant trees with darkness. A gust of wind whistled in their ears, chilling the air.

           Cedric murmured, “Yeah. A maze.”

           They stood still for a long time.

           Their shadows stretched across the pitch.

            Suddenly, Harry saw Krum stalking towards them from the left, glowering at Harry so intensely that Harry gripped his wand and Cedric looked ready to barge in between them.

            “Harry Potter,” Krum growled, scowling in his usual manner. “I need to speak vith you. Alone.”

             Harry frowned. “Why?”

             Krum glared at Cedric, who raised his eyebrow in response. “He goes.”

             Cedric glanced at Harry, and Harry shrugged helplessly. “I suppose you should…..leave?” he muttered under his breath, ignoring Krum’s dark stare. “I can handle myself, I’ll be fine.”

             Cedric opened his mouth to retort, but stopped, turning on his heels. “Alright,” he said gruffly, looking fiercely at Harry. “Be safe.”

             Harry smiled through his blush. “I solemnly swear it.”

             A lark flew above them, singing a haunting tune, while Cedric walked back to the castle slowly, looking over his shoulder once before setting off at a faster pace.

The sky was a deep blue, the edges early-evening red.

             Harry followed Krum away from Hogwarts and towards the Forbidden Forest to see what, exactly, had upset him so much.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all! just wanted to say that the "scarlet woman" line is entirely J.K. Rowling's, and that if anything is inaccurate and/or offensive about Harry's book and its author, feel free to let me know via comment or through tumblr. my url is: toomanyfeelings5. also: sorry for the spacing, i am too lazy to fix all of it. thanks so much!
> 
> UPDATE: I AM GOING TO A PLACE WITH NO INTERNET UNTIL MONDAY, SO THIS NEXT UPDATE IS GOING TO TAKE A LITTLE LONGER THAN THE PREVIOUS ONES. So sorry, but it can't be helped. Thank you all SO MUCH for your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and love for this fic. It means a lot. :) See you all sometime next week!


	7. Quidditch Stars Talk Shop, Slumber Parties Are Great for SPEW, Not-Strictly-Cuddling, Not-Strictly-a-Nightmare, and Too-Big Thoughts

NINETEEN

            They had just gotten past the Beauxbatons carriages when Krum stopped right at the beginnings of the Forbidden Forest. He spun on his heel to face Harry so quickly he nearly tripped over a tree-root. “I want to know,” he began, gaze boring into Harry’s, “if you and Her-my-one—Herminnie—if you two are—“

            Harry shook his head rapidly. “What-- ? No, no, Hermione and I are just friends!”

            Krum continued to glare. Harry couldn’t believe that even famous international Quidditch stars read gossip magazines. “Look,” Harry began, feeling even more awkward as the taller boy stared him down as though he was one of the baddies in one of Dudley’s television programmes, “Rita Skeeter, the reporter who wrote that article on me and Hermione—you know, being _involved_ —she’s not truthful, y’know? Hermione and I are friends and nothing else. We are strictly in the platonic zone.”

            Krum relaxed slightly, bushy eyebrows converging as he looked more uncertain. “You two are—you and Herm-eye-onie are friends, yes?”

            “Yes, that’s all,” Harry confirmed, feeling a bit exasperated about being dragged all the way over to the Forbidden Forest for something so minor. The sun had sunk lower in the trees; dinner would be ready soon.

            He was about to retreat back to Hogwarts when Krum suddenly said, “You are very talented in the air. I saw you on your broom with the Horntail; that wasn’t easy.”

            Harry did not gape or choke on his spit or squeal or do anything other people might have done upon hearing that Viktor Krum, world-renowned Quidditch player, had just paid him a compliment. Instead, Harry looked at him and smiled. Maybe being around Cedric and Cho had made it easier to talk to older, more popular people. “Thanks, Viktor. Your Wronski Feint was really impressive, I saw you at the World Cup, and your speed was good too—“

            He would have said more (Viktor was beginning to smile almost sheepishly), but then Mr. Crouch had to stumble out from behind a nearby tree and ruin everything.

TWENTY

            Harry was running as fast as he could up the winding staircase to Dumbledore’s office, Crouch’s warnings ringing in his ears, when a familiarly cold voice snapped, “And what brings _you_ here?”

            Harry stopped short on the last step, the gargoyle entrance to Dumbledore’s office blocked by Professor Snape. “I—have—to—find—“

            “Spare us all, Potter, and spit it out!”

            Harry glared, lungs burning as he tried to catch his breath. “I need to see Dumbledore. _Now.”_

            Snape raised one dark eyebrow.

            Harry rolled his eyes. “I need to see Dumbledore now, _sir_.”

            “And why,” the Potions Master drawled, as immovable as the gargoyle, “must you disturb the Headmaster at this hour?”

            Harry bit back any and all insults and yelled, “I don’t have time for this! I found Mr. Crouch in the Forbidden Forest, he was talking about Voldemort getting stronger and warning Dumbledore about it, and I left him with Viktor Krum, and I need to see Dumbledore right now! …..Sir.”

            Snape’s dark eyes glittered in surprise. “What utter nonsense are you babbling about—?”

            Suddenly, the gargoyle rotated to reveal Professor Dumbledore walking swiftly out of his office. “Severus, I thank you for your timely appearance. We have a lost Ministry Official to look for.”

            Harry blinked. “What—?”

            Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “Your voice carries, Harry, has no one ever told you? Now then,” he said, robes swishing as he began descending down the staircase, “Let’s find Mr. Crouch and Viktor Krum.”

            Despite Dumbledore’s apparent lack of worry, Harry couldn’t help but notice how fast the man rushed out of Hogwarts, eyes scanning the grounds sharply.

            Harry’s legs were aching by the time they all reached the entrance to the Forbidden Forest, the Beauxbatons carriages lined up neatly nearby; the lack of Quidditch training this year had taken its toll. Snape’s cloak fluttered behind him as he hissed, “This is nothing but Potter seeking attention, no one is even here—“

            “I was with them, I saw Crouch! I know what happened!”

            Dumbledore held up his wandless hand, and they fell silent, Harry seething as Snape looked away bitterly. “ _Lumos_ ,” the old wizard murmured, and the trees glowed in the sudden, ghostly light.

            Harry charged forward, worry stampeding on his heart as there was no sign of Krum or Crouch. It was as though they had never been there at all; there were no footprints, no snapped twigs, no sign of life. They had been standing at this exact spot, he was sure of it. But the shadows of the trees clawed across the grass, an owl began its late evening screeches, and it seemed as though every blade of glass hid something; everything was different, as though someone had rearranged the pieces on one of Ron’s chess sets. “They were right here, I swear Professor, I’m not making this up—“ Snape snorted as he flicked his wand lazily at an innocuous bush—“Professor, d’you see them anywhere-- ?”

            “Harry Potter? Is that you?”

            Relief jolted through Harry as he heard Krum’s familiar, gravelly voice. “Yes,” he answered, daring to breathe as he walked toward the sound. “Yes, I’m here.”

            Dumbledore stopped him, bony hand gripping his shoulder tightly. “Wait,” he commanded, and strode deeper into the forest.

            Harry waited, steeling himself against every creaking branch and the occasional spider crawling toward his shoes. Snape muttered something about baby-sitting under his breath as he too remained still, eyes peering into the growing darkness with something like fascination.

            Dumbledore emerged from the forest at last, a bewildered and irritated Viktor Krum in tow, and announced, “Mr. Crouch, it seems, remains at large.”

            “What?” Snape asked, brushing his greasy hair out of his eyes. “Crouch is still missing?”

            “That Mr. Crouch, or whatever you call him, he attacked me! I was waiting for Harry Potter, and Crouch put me to sleep, I am sure of it,” Krum exclaimed, still rubbing his head and shaking spiders and dirt off his robes.

            Dumbledore nodded while Harry blurted out, “But Crouch looked so sick, he wasn’t making sense unless he was talking about Voldemort, why would he attack you?”

            “Precisely,” Dumbledore whispered, tapping his illuminated wand against his temple. “That is exactly right, Harry. Why is Crouch missing, why was he in the Forbidden Forest in the first place? Perhaps most troublingly, why did he attack a student, a Triwizard champion at that? I think, however, that we have all had too much excitement this evening to answer these questions. Severus, kindly inform Igor on the whereabouts of his student, and send an owl to Cornelius informing him of Crouch’s troubling re-appearance. I will escort you, Viktor (may I call you Viktor?) to Madame Pomfrey for a brief medical examination. Don’t worry, a full and hearty dinner will be personally provided to you afterward. And Harry,” Dumbledore addressed him last, eyes boring into him, “Any letters you might want to send you may write in the morning. Do not go anywhere unattended. Understood?”

            Harry nodded, feeling small as Dumbledore’s unrelenting stare rooted him in place. “Yes.”

            Dumbledore nodded before leading them all back to the castle, violet robes billowing behind him. Krum kept rubbing his head and muttering curses in Bulgarian as his stomach rumbled, and Snape was eerily silent, only occasionally glaring at Harry as they neared the entrance to the Great Hall.

            Snape entered the castle first, setting off to follow Dumbledore’s instructions while Krum trudged in the entrance, blinking at the sudden onslaught of light and warmth.

            Dumbledore swept into the Great Hall next while Krum adjusted to the light, chattering on about his favorite Chocolate Frog cards. Soon both of them were marching to the hospital wing, and their voices faded away into the castle halls.

            Harry allowed himself one last look at the dark before the heavy doors closed behind him.

            He was about to head to bed when someone called out, “Harry!”

            He blinked in surprise as Cedric hurried toward him from the far side of the hall, looking immensely relieved.

            “Er, hello,” Harry responded, not quite sure what to say. “Were you—were you waiting for me?”

            Cedric frowned, coming to a halt in front of Harry. “Well, not exactly, it’s just—well, I had lots of work to do, and Ernie needed help with his sewing project, and Zoe was having a hard time with Care of Magical Creatures because she’s allergic to nifflers, and yeah, I suppose I was a bit worried about you. I was doing my prefect rounds and heard your voice, so I thought I’d stop by. You alright?”

            It was Harry’s turn to frown. He was too tired for any of this. “’M fine, yeah.” His stomach growled loudly as he yawned. “Well, thanks for the chat, but I’m off to bed—“

            Cedric looked appalled. “Harry, you never had dinner!”

            Harry shrugged. “I’m used to it, I’ll be fine. G’night—“

            Cedric’s eyebrows shot up to his bangs. “You are coming with me to the kitchens, and you are going to eat dinner.”

            Harry very nearly said, “Who are you, Mrs. Weasely?” but instead huffed and followed Cedric to the kitchens. Except—

            “Wait,” he started, right outside the Great Hall. “I need to let Ron and Hermione know where I am.”

            Cedric nodded quickly. “Oh yeah, of course. I’ll be here, so don’t fall asleep yet, yeah? You need a proper meal.”

            Harry rolled his eyes and headed back to the Gryffindor dormitory, remembering the password just in time. The Fat Lady smirked and swung the portrait hole open to reveal Ron and Hermione, both dead asleep on the couch off to the side. Ron was drooling on one of the pillows while Hermione’s head rested on his shoulder, tendrils of hair pulled back in a loose bun. They looked so peaceful. Harry almost felt bad about waking them.

            Ron jolted awake as soon as Harry tapped his shoulder, sitting up and rousing Hermione along with him. “Harry!” he exclaimed, trying to blink himself awake, “You’re finally back!”

            Hermione brushed her hair out of her face and was already demanding to know what had happened. “What did Viktor want to talk to you about? Are you both alright?”

            Harry held up his hands. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s…..fine. No one’s in danger anymore, at least. Anyway, Cedric wants me to have some dinner at the kitchens because I guess I skived off with Viktor by accident. So, er. If you’d like to come…?”

            Ron muttered, _“Anymore?”_ while Hermione smoothed her robes and stood.

“Let’s go,” she said while rubbing her eyes. “I want to hear what happened.”

            Harry nodded while Ron stumbled off the couch. Soon the three of them were sneaking out of the common room as quietly as they could.

            Cedric was waiting for them in the same spot he’d been in before, smiling widely. “Hey, you three,” he greeted, “Join the party, I s’pose.”

            The four of them shuffled to the kitchens, Cedric leading the way. They didn’t talk much; Ron seemed to be focused on not falling asleep while Hermione kept trying to get her hair back into its bun. Harry cleaned his glasses.

            They reached the kitchens with only dim candlelight to guide them, but Cedric knew the way so he didn’t bother lighting his wand. Soon enough, they entered the kitchens, Peeves’s distant snickering following them in while house elves greeted them with sleepy but pleased smiles. One after another immediately offered roasts and potatoes and steaming vegetables. Still others held up platters of pumpkin juice, hot chocolate, and milk, while some carried bowls of pudding and cakes. Harry still couldn’t believe how much food there was at Hogwarts; the Dursleys only had such lavish meals for special occasions, like Dudley’s birthday, or if Dudley got good marks on a test he cheated on, or if Dudley won a fight, or if they had company.

            He carefully accepted slices of pot roast with some green beans and potatoes on the side while Hermione fumed next to him. As Cedric took a bite out of a stray apple, she huffed, “Come to think of it, why are we bothering to go to the kitchens anyway? We’re just exploiting the overworked house-elves even more.”

            A few pointed ears drooped or perked up at such an inflammatory statement, but mostly the house elves continued staring at their feet, uttering words of thanks as Harry, Cedric, and Ron took more food.

            Hermione looked like she was about to say something else when Winky staggered out from behind a large pot resting against a cupboard. She dragged a bottle of butterbeer behind her, the liquid dribbling slowly onto the floor as the other house elves studiously ignored her and wiped the butterbeer away quickly. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she looked even thinner than when they had seen her last, and her stringy hair was matted and curled with knots. “Mr.— _hic_ \-- Master Crouch?” she croaked through her hiccups, squinting up at the humans in the kitchens. “Is that you, Master Crouch?”

            Hermione sighed. “No, Winky,” she said brusquely, “Mr. Crouch isn’t here, and he isn’t your master anymore.”

            Winky’s enormous brown eyes welled with tears, and Harry sat down in front of her, not wanting her to make a scene. “I saw Mr. Crouch today, Winky. In the Forbidden Forest.”

            Winky’s bottle clattered to the floor. “You— _hic_ —you saw my Master? Thank you, thank you, thank you—!”

            “What? Harry, are you making this up?” Ron sat to Harry’s left, leaning against a shelf of cookbooks while Cedric stood to his right, peering down at him in resigned confusion. Hermione was right behind him, and Harry could feel her gaze piercing his neck.

            Harry shook his head, doing his best to focus on Winky. “No, I’m not lying. Listen, Winky, I saw Mr. Crouch in the Forbidden Forest just a few hours ago. He looked—well, he didn’t look well at all, he kept muttering about, er, You-Know-Who and other things, but—“

            “Harry, is that you?”

            Harry whipped his head around to find Cho standing at the entrance to the kitchens. “What’re you doing here?” he asked a bit too roughly while Cedric shook her hand warmly.

            Cho frowned, only taking one pasty from an eager house elf. “I have, er, an erratic sleep schedule. So right about now is my mealtime, and I always come down here for dinner.”

            Hermione flashed a brief smile in her direction. “Thanks for the card, by the way. But do you really come to the house elves so late… every single night?”

            Cho smiled widely in response, not noticing how Hermione’s own grin slowly vanished. “Yeah, ‘course. They make the most delicious food around.” The house elves beamed at her, nearly chanting words of thanks. “So. Harry. What were you saying about Mr. Crouch?”

            Harry rubbed his forehead and looked back at Winky, who looked even more fearful at the increase in humans. “As I was saying to Winky, I found Crouch in the Forbidden Forest today. And he wasn’t quite himself, he kept babbling on about—about reports he had to make, and things at work. And—“ --he glanced and Winky’s crushed face and plowed onwards—“Crouch talked about Voldemort, too. Of warning Dumbledore about something important.”

            Winky burst into sobs, wailing and honking into her grimy handkerchief while nearby house elves glared at her and continued cooking and baking. Cho cautiously leaned towards her and passed her a clean handkerchief. Winky took it with shaking hands. “My master is needing me, he is needing his Winky!” she cried, voice cracking shrilly. Ron covered his ears. Cedric winced. “He trusts me to keeps all his secrets, my master does…..oh yes, my master trusts me. He needs me, he needs me to keep his most precious—his most special secret! My master needs—“

            “Winky!” Dobby scampered forward, jostling the crowd. He took the fallen bottle carefully away from Winky’s reach, set it down behind him, and wagged his finger at the sodden elf. “You is _needing_ a good sleep! You is sick, Winky. You is needing quiet, not Master Crouch.”

            “Oh for goodness sake, Dobby,” Hermione snapped, looking too angry for late night snacks. “Mr. Crouch isn’t her master anymore!”

            “I don’t think that’s the right thing to say right now, Hermione—“

            “Cedric, you don’t know what you’re talking about, she needs to know she’s free—“

            “I reckon we should just eat up—“

            “Ron--!”

            _“My master needs me!”_ Winky yelled, and everyone stopped and looked at her, like she was too grotesque not to gaze at. Her knees were drawn to her chest as she rocked back and forth, wiping her eyes with her new handkerchief forcefully. Dobby stared at her sadly and gently took her hand. After a long moment, Winky wobbled to her feet and allowed Dobby to lead her to what were presumably the elves’ chambers, nodding at Harry as he left.

            Hermione looked exasperated and horror-struck while Ron demanded, “You had to interrupt her, didn’t you? Hermione, we could have gotten more out of her! She said she had some big secret or something, that’s important stuff! Apparently Crouch has been nattering on about You-Know-Who, or whatever, we could have used her—“

            Hermione shook her head. “I still can’t believe she thinks that Crouch trusted her with anything, doesn’t she see that she isn’t a slave anymore-- ?”

            Cho hung her head, wiping her own eyes on her robe sleeves. “I felt terrible just looking at her, the poor thing—“

            Cedric looked panicked as the other house-elves backed away from them all, forced smiles frozen on their faces. “See here, it’ll be alright—“

“We don’t likes to talk about Winky,” one of them muttered, “and Dobby the house elf goes on about—about _wages_ —and we don’t needs wages, we needs good masters like Dumbledore—“

            The others all bobbed their heads in agreement. The elf continued, buoyed with brief confidence. “If you please, we don’t needs to listen to you talk about freedom or wages anymore.” The elves all bowed as one, while their apparent representative looked them all in the face. “We is already free.”

            With that, most of the elves scurried off to clean dishes in the back or to sleep. A lot of the elves slept in little potato sacks in small corners and empty nooks and crannies, apparently content with the floor and not bothering with their beds.

            Cedric rubbed the back of his neck and managed, “I’ve never seen them so worked up before. Have you got your food, Harry?”

             Harry nodded stiffly, nibbling on his green beans tentatively while Hermione balled her fists in anger. “They’re not free! You hear me?” she nearly shouted, voice ricocheting off the walls, “Do you all hear? You’re not free at all! They just belong to a _benevolent_ master this time, like it makes everything better, like it’s ok that we rely on slave labor to eat our food—“ she glared at the spotless floor—“and clean for us. That’s not right. But what’s _even worse_ is that they won’t accept the clothes I left for them! House elves don’t understand, they’re too enamored with their precious masters to truly see what’s going on—“

            “You’re right on that front,” Ron interrupted, polishing off a turkey leg. “Most house elves don’t understand freedom. So why make them clothes that they won’t take? Might as well just let them live at Hogwarts, they love it here. And besides, what’s more important right now is whatever secret Winky has. I reckon Crouch’s son is involved—“

            “Oh, please,” Hermione scoffed while Cedric and Harry and Cho ate their meals in silence; Cedric kept looking towards the house-elf chamber door, like he personally sent them there, while Harry put every ounce of his energy in finishing his potatoes and Cho munched on carrots and beef, looking contemplative. “Ron, Winky doesn’t have any big secret to tell, you saw how Crouch treated her! He wouldn’t trust important things to her, she’s just a house elf. And just because some house elves like Hogwarts doesn’t mean that it isn’t slavery, because it is. D’you know about Muggle slavery, Ronald?”

            Her eyes blazed as Ron looked baffled, shaking his head bemusedly. Harry could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. Cho’s eyes widened in understanding. Even Cedric stopped his guilt-filled silence to look up. “I’ll tell you all about it then, shall I? People who looked like me—my ancestors and my people along with countless others—were enslaved in Britain and her marvelous colonies from 1562 to 1833. I don’t know the whole story, but I do know that my family can trace its roots to the slave trade in Jamaica, which began in 1702 and ended in 1833.” Ron gaped as Hermione continued and Cho stared at her shoes. Cedric’s frown deepened at every word. Harry looked away; Hermione didn’t stop the tears from falling. “So don’t you dare tell me that house elf enslavement is alright. Because slavery is still affecting them. It’s still affecting Great Britain. It’s still affecting _me._ Teachers back in primary always acted so surprised when I got every question right. Even here, people want to touch my hair, or ask me to perform African spells, or think I’m so _exotic_ and _freakish_. House elf enslavement is wrong. And if the house elves don’t see it, then I’ll have to for them.” A fervent light entered her red-rimmed eyes. She wiped her eyes. “I’ll make them clothes, I’ll make petitions, I’ll talk to Dumbledore, I’ll get Winky to come around—I’ll make sure they’re freed, no matter what they think—“

           “It does matter,” Harry interrupted, gripping his fork and knife so tightly his knuckles hurt. “I told you before. It matters what the elves think, Hermione.”

            She blinked, ready to retort, when Cedric murmured, “I think he’s right.”

            Cho nodded, voice hitched. “Yes. I—I understand. What it’s like to be born into a history that doesn’t treat you kindly. But it’s important to think about what house elves want too.”

            Hermione shook her head adamantly while Ron kept glancing at her like she was an entirely different person. “No, you don’t understand. My history isn’t yours. And besides, were your people exploited and enslaved for years? Did you ever suffer from such terrible treatment?”

           “Hermione, I grew up with the Dursleys, of course I know what it’s like!” Harry couldn’t keep the anger inside him this time; he knew what to say now. He had words for his anger, and he was just getting started. “They always went on about Mum and Dad, but with Dad it was different. They said he was too lazy to get a job, too weak to make it in society. I was never allowed to take family portraits, did I ever tell you? They said I would ruin the shot.” He was breathing hard, pulling at his hair, trying not to laugh as everyone stared at him like he had grown three heads. “I get that you’re angry, Hermione, I am too! But trust me, if you really want to free the house elves, you need to listen to what they have to say.”

            Hermione swallowed down her answer while Cedric squeezed Harry’s shoulder in silent support. Ron looked at Harry and Hermione and put his head in his hands, shaking slightly from confusion or tiredness or anger, no one could tell for sure. Cho cleared her throat and brushed her hair out of her face. She made her way over to Harry and sat down next to him, Cedric on his other side, and rested her hand gently on his other shoulder. “Hermione, Harry, I really admire your passion, and I think your anger—well, it fuels you. But house elf slavery is not the same as British human slavery, just as growing up as—as Harry did isn’t the same as house elf abuse. House elves have their own histories, like you said, Hermione. I’m sorry if I acted like we were the same.” She paused, examining her light pink nails. “If it’s any consolation, I can tell you heaps of stories about my grandparents and how they had to work terrible jobs because they didn’t understand English, and how Mum got kicked out of school for protesting the Anglo-centric curriculum. How my teachers in primary didn’t want my family teaching me Mandarin and Hangzhounese because they were ‘too foreign.’ Anyway. House-elves are different from us.”

            “And we should respect that,” Cedric added, looking oddly excited and grave at the same time. “Did you know house elves don’t call themselves boys and girls and suchlike? Yeah, I know, but they don’t! Sure, their masters do, but they have an entirely different way of addressing each other, like, different genders and things. Found out through an elf called Lopsy. So yes. We should learn more about the elves before making any presumptions. Also I think it’d be daft not to accept services from them at this point, yeah? I mean all of the house elves here would consider it extremely rude if you didn’t take anything from them out of principal, just ask Zacharias Smith. And I think it’d be good if we respect their wishes. So that way, we’d all get along.”

            Cho played with her hair and stared intently at her bumblebee print pajamas. “I’ve never thought about hose elves this much before.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I always come down here for late-night dinner, and I never bothered learning about them or talking to them or anything.”

            Hermione rubbed her eyes. Ron and Harry had never seen her look so tired. “It’s easy to ignore awful things when it benefits you. It’s easy to take food from them when it’s the choice that makes you feel the least guilty.”

             Ron, who at this point was barely awake and too much in a foul mood to argue, yawned widely and leaned his head against a set of drawers. He mumbled, “Good talk. Thanks. G’night.” In seconds he was snoring softly.

            Hermione looked at him almost fondly, and Harry could have sworn she muttered, “At least he listened.”

            Nobody had the heart to wake him, and soon Hermione was drifting off as well, head drooping onto her knees, messy bun obscuring her face.

            Harry wanted to leave. He didn’t regret speaking, but he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at telling everyone all about the Dursleys. No one wanted to hear him talk about things like that, it was too—too unpleasant, and wrong, and he’d get in trouble—

            Cho’s hand gripped his shoulder more tightly. “Hey, Harry. It’s ok. Also, your relatives are the worst.”

            Cedric nodded, head drifting onto Harry’s other shoulder so slowly Harry almost didn’t notice. “We’ll take loads of pictures with you. They’re gonna look great.”

            Cho murmured in agreement, and soon her head was on Harry’s other shoulder too. He squirmed, not quite sure how to react to this. He glanced around at the inky kitchen, Ron’s snores filling the room as Hermione shifted her head and drooled onto her crossed arms. Cedric and Cho’s breathing became slow and steady. Harry sighed. He forced himself to become completely still, trying to match everyone else’s relaxed breathing. He supposed that he could stand up and go back to Gryffindor Tower, but he had to admit that it was nice to have people be so close to him. Strange, but nice.

            His head lolled back against the corner kitchen cabinet. Cho muttered something in her sleep while Cedric shifted slightly closer.

            Harry could hear their heartbeats.

            He didn’t dream once.

TWENTY-ONE

            Waking up was difficult, and not just because Harry had two very attractive soulmates draped over his shoulders. His eyes opened slowly, and he couldn’t help but look at them, really, when they were practically glued to him. Cedric snored very lightly, his breath ghosting onto Harry’s robes as he slept. His face scrunched up slightly, like he was dreaming something funny, and Harry could count the freckles and spots of zits on his nose if he wished. Cho’s head was nestled more at his side than on his shoulder. She muttered nonsense words in her sleep, and Harry could see acne scars etched on her cheeks as her eyelashes fluttered gently. She smiled slightly at the same time Cedric did, and Harry didn’t move at all. His back was sore from sitting up all night, and his arms and legs tingled with numbness, but he smiled too.

Harry finally glanced up to see Dobby gazing at him with such fixation he wriggled to a more upright position, jamming his glasses more firmly onto his nose. “Dobby? What’re you doing here?”

            The elf bobbed his head, hands raised reflexively. “Harry Potter, sir, Dobby just wanted to make certain that Harry and his friends left the kitchens before we cooks breakfast.”

            Harry nodded slowly, not wanting to upset the already-high-strung elf. “Thanks, Dobby,” he managed through a huge yawn. “How’s Winky?”

            Dobby’s huge smile sank a bit. “Winky is—Winky is sick, Harry Potter, but she will be better. I’ll helps her, yes I will.”

            Harry muttered something like, “That’s good,” before gingerly sitting up even further, feeling his heart beat faster as Cho startled awake and Cedric woke up a moment after. Immediately, they all scrambled out of each other’s way, faces red, eyes looking everywhere else but each other. Harry accepted Dobby’s outstretched hand and stood on wobbly legs, refusing to be distracted by Cho and Cedric’s bedhead and stifled yawns.  Dobby looked at them with befuddled delight and promptly left them to gather the other elves.

Cedric combed a hand through his floppy hair and mumbled, “Er, I have to, well. Get ready for the day.”

            Cho nodded quickly as she found her slippers squashed underneath the corner cabinet. “Yeah, me too. This was, um? A nice slumber party.”

            Harry and Cedric both nodded curtly. Cedric coughed out a quick, “Yes, this wasn’t so bad. See you both later, I s’pose.”

            He nearly tripped over his untied laces in his haste to leave. Cho shook her head and exited a bit more smoothly. Her focus was on fixing her hair, which had stuck to her face while she had slept.

            Harry looked around for Ron and Hermione, suddenly feeling very alone in the quiet kitchen even as more and more house elves started dashing into the room, smiles bright and eager as they began to prepare for breakfast.

            He stumbled out of the kitchens, still feeling a sense of loss as he found himself plodding towards Gryffindor Tower. He frowned. _Where were Ron and Hermione?_ Breakfast wasn’t going to be any time soon, and judging by the pale-blue, pink-splashed sky, it wasn’t even dawn. Wandering through the castle this early (late?) only made him think of Crouch, stumbling from behind a tree, eyes rolled back in his head, and Karkaroff and Snape and even Moody lurking in the shadows, eyes gleaming with secrets and schemes and old stories.

            Harry quickened his pace.

            Birds sang and squawked to one another, and the light was beginning to empty onto the windows, casting shadows in the silvery-dark castle. He could have sworn he saw Ginny talking to a girl he didn’t know—were those enormous _raddish earrings_?—in one of the portrait rooms, but he didn’t bother stopping. Their heads were close together, giggling and whispering, hands occasionally brushing. Harry thought it best not to interrupt.

            His legs were still sore from sleeping and from climbing all of those staircases; by the time he reached Gryffindor Tower, Harry just wanted to curl up and sleep on his bed. To his shock, when he entered the Common Room after the Fat Lady had complained enough about early mornings, Ron and Hermione were engaged in quiet discussion in front of the fireplace. They weren’t exactly peaceful; Ron kept wrinkling his nose while Hermione stood on her tip-toes to express her irritation. They both jumped when Harry neared them.

            “Thought you’d never come up.” Ron’s grin was equal parts teasing and relieved. “You looked so content, you know. All snuggled up.”

            Harry felt his face warm and his palms grow sticky. “Sod off.”

            Hermione rolled her eyes and declared, “Ron and I have been talking while you’ve been asleep, and we’ve decided—“

            “-- To take a break on this whole SPEW thing,” Ron concluded, trying and failing not to look smug. “We’ve got loads of, er, things to consider…and discuss…”

            Hermione waved him off. “I have to reassess our strategy. Evaluate our options. Not to mention we’ve got school, and Dark wizards out to get us, and, well. I can’t—“ she squeezed her eyes shut—“I can’t do the house elves justice if I’ve got so many other things to take care of. So. SPEW is going on a hiatus, for now anyway. I’ll let you both know when it’s starting up again, alright?”

            She looked at them so hopefully, and smiled so tentatively that Ron answered, “Yes, of course,” immediately, while Harry nodded.

            She concluded their pre-dawn SPEW conference with, “I’m not giving up, mind you. Just got to think about some things.” She set her quill into its case—had she been writing this whole thing down?—and announced, “Meeting adjourned.”

            Harry couldn’t help but feel a quick sting of relief and guilt; he’d rather not talk about the Dursleys again, not for now anyway.

            Soon he blinked and stumbled away and miraculously found his way to bed, Ron right behind him, making sure his friend didn’t fall. Hermione went to her own bed. Harry collapsed on the mattress, thinking about how much colder he was without other peoples’ body heat, when it seemed he blinked and hours flashed by. When he opened his eyes, it was already time for breakfast.

            Waking up the second time was even more arduous; visions of the old house on the hill followed him out of sleep as he groggily got dressed in his robes. Ron didn’t look much better. He kept turning his sock inside-out.

            They didn’t say much to each other, grim silence speaking for both of them; after Defense Against the Dark Arts, it was straight to Divination.

            Breakfast came and went, as did Defense Against the Dark Arts. They were to practice Stunning spells under Moody’s watchful eyes, while Harry struggled to stay awake. Everything looked hazy and unreal, like he was still in a dream. At the end of class, him and Ron and Hermione told Professor Moody about finding Crouch in the Forbidden Forest, all of them struggling not to yawn. The tale-telling was a group effort; Moody’s eyes bored into their faces, particularly when they talked about Crouch. His magical eye rolled back in his head as he barked, “Well, isn’t that something. I’ll take a look into it, yes I will. Off you go now, I have an investigation to start!”

            Harry rubbed his forehead as they left the class, feeling little pinpricks of pain prickle across his scar. He almost caught what Hermione was saying, her voice flitting in and out of his mind, like a voice underwater.

            “Harry, what d’you think about Crouch?” she asked, suddenly fixing her eyes on him. Ron turned around too, curiosity making him perkier; he practically bounced as he walked.

            Harry sighed. “Sorry, Hermione, what did you say?”

            She raised an eyebrow and spoke a little louder, even slowing down her brisk pace. “I was saying that Crouch attacked Viktor because he was truly mad, or he attacked Viktor while under something like the Imperius Curse, or maybe Crouch didn’t attack Viktor at all, someone else did, and who knows what happened to Crouch after that.”

            Ron frowned, rubbing his hand under his chin in thought. “I dunno, I reckon it must’ve been Crouch who attacked Krum. That’s why he ran away, to cover it up.”

            Harry shook his head, feeling the world spin slightly as he caught up to them. “Crouch seemed really sick, I don’t think he could’ve attacked anyone—“

            Their conversation was interrupted because an elderly witch marched towards them, looking cross as Hermione gave a start. “That’s my Arithmancy professor, I forgot she wanted me to help her set up the class today—we’ll talk later, Harry needs to prepare for the Third Task, and Crouch needs to be discussed, and anyway, see you two after class!”

            Ron and Harry trudged to Divination, trying and failing to feel optimistic about today’s lesson. As they climbed the creaking staircase to Professor Trewlawney’s stuffy, cramped classroom, Harry had to keep blinking, because everything kept going out of focus. He almost didn’t make it up the stairs, but Ron nudged him up, chalking it up to lack of sleep.

            Harry slid into his seat as Professor Trewlawny’s dewy, soft voice dripped off of him like honey; sure, he heard her speak, but he felt encased rather than intrigued. He found himself nodding off before he knew it, tuning out Parvati and Lavendar’s excited questions and Ron’s under-the-breath comments and that fly buzzing by the window—come to think of it, it was quite hot, why not open the window—that’s better—

            Harry was in the graveyard again.

            He walked through the mist entwining around his legs, up the wild-grass hill, and entered the old house on top of the hill. He knew this house.

            Harry crept up the squealing, old-wood stairs, voices becoming more distinct as he stepped slowly and carefully towards the top of the staircase. Cobwebs and dust brushed his fingers as he grasped the iron railing, fear pulsing right below his throat.

            There were others in the house, and they did not wish to be seen.

            Harry stood by the closed door, listening to the high-pitched man’s tear-strained voice cry out, “Master, master, I am profusely sorry for my—my mistake—“

            The other stranger answered his companion in a voice so cold and inhuman that Harry shivered. “Silence, Wormtail. Your regrettable error can be forgiven. I am a merciful lord, and you will perform your part when the time is right.”

            “Yes, yes, my lord, whatever you wish—“

            His companion laughed, but it sounded more like a raspy hiss. “Very good. Now, there are other matters to attend to. Nagini tells me that there is a man right behind this door.”

            Harry nearly jumped as a huge snake, its scales glistening in the faint light, slithered languidly past him and coiled itself, waiting, right outside the door.

            Suddenly, a flash of green—shrieking—a rush of sound--

            Harry woke on the floor of the Divination classroom; he’d fallen out of his seat.

            Ron was at his side in an instant, chair scraping loudly against the floor as he helped Harry to his feet.

            Harry was dimly aware of everyone staring at him, Trewlawny mentioning something about doom, while Parvati asked worriedly, “Harry, are you alright? Was it the vibrations of evil spirits? Professor, we should work on making the class safer—“

            “’M fine,” he muttered, already trudging towards the door with Ron right beside him. “I’m going to hospital.”

            As soon as the door shut, Ron said, “We’re heading to Dumbledore’s, aren’t we?”

            Harry nodded, adjusting his glasses. “It’s what Sirius said to do. Listen, I need you to stay in class, alright? For notes and things. Also—thanks for the help, but I can manage.”

            Ron huffed and turned back, but not before retorting, “I better see you at lunch.”

            Harry managed a grin and descended the staircase swiftly; his head was clearing rapidly, the images burned into his brain as the urgency of his dream overtook him. He had to tell Dumbledore.

            He reached the griffin statue soon enough, though to his horror he heard voices from behind the beast’s stony eyes.

            Harry stepped closer to the statue, and heard the voices more clearly, blood pounding in his ears.

            First was Fudge, fretting and reluctant: “Now see here, Dumbledore, I see no reason to investigate this matter further. If we look at the evidence, we can clearly see that the two boys were stationed very close to the Beauxbaton carriages—“

            Dumbledore, calm and detached: “Madame Maxime did not attack anyone, Cornelius.”

            Fudge again, more blustering: “Come now, Dumbledore, you know what she really is—her kind isn’t prone to peace—“

            “Enough.”

            Fudge was silent at Dumbledore’s dismissal.

            Karkaroff was next, voice loud and almost overblown in its anger: “I want whoever is responsible for such an act to be punished severely. Dumbledore, I see you’ve done nothing for reparations for the damage done to my champion—“

            “Quiet, Karkaroff.” Moody, prickly and growling. “Harry Potter is waiting outside this door.”

            Immediately, Karkaroff barged out of the office, looking crosser than usual as he brushed past Harry. Fudge came next, tittering a quick, “Hello, Harry,” before scuttling off to his official Minister business. Moody fixed him with his bright blue eye as he slowly made his way down the stairs. Harry had the feeling it didn’t stop looking at him even as the professor’s back was turned.

            “Hello, Harry.”

            Harry swallowed and faced Dumbledore, who held the door open wide.

            As he entered the office, flashes of green flickered in the corner of his vision, and for the first time, Harry didn’t feel entirely safe in Dumbledore’s office.

TWENTY-TWO

            As Harry prepared to go to lunch, a new letter to Sirius tucked under his arm, he couldn’t stop thinking about Karkaroff and Barty Crouch Jr.’s trials, and Neville’s parents, and his dreams, and how Dumbledore seemed to know everything, and about the Third Task, and house-elves, and Cedric and Cho, and waking up feeling warm, and how he didn’t know if he should ask Parvati or Padma about Indian food he should try, and mazes growing up out of the ground, and Crouch’s eyes bulging at him, and—

            Harry took a deep breath.

            He sent his letter and walked to lunch, and made sure his wand was at least somewhat cleaned; he had training to do.

            Harrry stood outside the Great Hall and pulled his gaze from his shoes.

            Everyone could use a Pensieve.

           

           

 

 

 

           

 

 

           

 

           

 

           

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST, THIS UPDATE HAS ARRIVED. Thank you all so much for being patience and bearing with me. Special thanks to a certain commenter for rightfully pointing out that using "POC" as an adjective is a super generalized and not-good descriptor to use, hence the tag change from "POC Harry" to the new one, which will also be updated and specified accordingly. Thank you. I will endeavor to not make that mistake again. Also, constructive criticism is super important to me, if anyone has anything to say I would greatly appreciate it. If anything is offensive/inaccurate regarding Cho and Hermione's heritages, or anything else, feel free to let me know. One last thing: The Third Task is coming.


	8. Afternoon Blues, The Third Task, Interlude #3, Photographs, and The State of Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Farmer's Wife" is a fable from India, unless I'm wrong, in which case, feel free to let me know. The thing described with all of the animal parts is the Rompo, whose stories were told in parts of Africa and India. I know that calling Hindusim a "mythology" is insulting, as it is a living religion, so if the Rompo is a being from Hinduism the religion and not from myth, please let me know so I can make the appropriate changes. Same goes for the parts of Africa that told stories about this creature. Thanks!

TWENTY-THREE

            Harry was getting tired of worrying about whether someone was going to try and kill him or not; he’d spent weeks practicing defensive spells and counter-hexes with Ron and Hermione, Professor Moody kept skulking around the castle at odd times, glowering suspiciously at everything that breathed, and Sirius sent him letters daily, reminding him to be cautious and to survive the tournament. His godfather also signed his letters with increasingly creative dog names, from Thunderbark to Werewoof to Sir Wags-a-Lot, so at least Harry laughed when he finished reading them, if not entirely comforted by the constant mantra of “Stay alive,” and, “Be watchful of your enemies.”

            The Third Task was sooner rather than later, after all.

            Ludo Bagman was getting increasingly nice in a desperate sort of way, always grinning too widely whenever Harry passed by, always ready with a “word of advice,” to help Harry cheat to win the Tournament for….whatever reason. Harry was pretty sure it had something to do with the goblins Bagman had met in the Hog’s Head; he’d overheard Fred and George talking about it in hushed, surprisingly angry tones.

On top of this, Malfoy seemed to devote all of his free time to speaking into his hand in not-so-secluded-places ( _Really, Malfoy,_ Harry wondered, _is the loo the best place to have a chat with that weird bug in your hand? Is it even a talking bug? Did you curse a student to be your insect minion? Did you forget the Ferret Incident?_ ). He also gave quotes to Rita Skeeter like they were free candy at parades. In one particularly memorable article, the Slytherin’s words were plastered all over Skeeter’s masterfully titled:

**_Harry Potter: Disturbed and Dangerous_ **

            Malfoy, described as “a venerable fourth-year at the prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” apparently told Ms. Skeeter that, “Potter’s a parseltongue, he nearly killed me in a duel because of it,” and, “he’s a danger to the school; look how unstable he is, fainting in class.” An expert who Skeeter cited as an anonymous source claimed that he’d worked with children like Harry before; they had acted out because they desired any kind of attention.

            The article had swept Hogwarts by storm two weeks before the Third Task; all Harry could do was ignore the seemingly endless parade of _Potter Sinks_ badges and try his very best not to hex Malfoy and his crones out of Hogwarts.

            Harry was used to glares and insults and loneliness. He held his head high.

            Hermione kept him on schedule, and by the time the Tuesday before the Third Task rolled around, he had memorized her color-coordinated chart of spells he needed to learn. Ron was always game to practice mock-duels, instructing him on proper wand flicks and tricks he’d learned from his family. “Dad always says to defend yourself, you’d best keep your wand close; yeah, like that,” and “Mum’s gnome-cursing is a sight to behold, let me show you.”

            Despite their occasional arguments (“Are there really going to be _killer gnomes_ in the maze, Ron?” and “Harry doesn’t need a bloody stack of books, he needs _experience_!”), Ron and Hermione proved to be very helpful teachers. It made the countless early mornings and late nights worth it. It was nice to spend those only-ones-awake times with his two best friends.

            Harry didn’t see much of Cho or Cedric; occasionally Cho would make eye contact in the library, though she was too busy poring over scattered O.W.L. notes with Michael Corner and Marietta Edgecombe and her gaggle of study buddies to do much else. Whenever Harry would spot Cedric walking with his friends to lunch, or meandering in the hallways, the other boy never seemed to notice him. Harry didn’t realize how much he’d been expecting Cedric’s smiles until they weren’t there.

            It seemed that Cedric was avoiding both of them, based on Cho’s meaningful glances whenever Cedric pointedly sat far away from either of them in the library. Harry didn’t know what to make of it. Should he ask Cedric if he was feeling well? No, that was too personal. Should he try to smile at him? No, too embarrassing. Harry would shake his head and go back to schoolwork, or training, or reading more of Dr. Bhat’s book.

            The Wednesday before the Third Task arrived without fanfare; it was a cloudy, sweat-sticks-to-neck, the-air-was-like-a-soggy-piece-of-toast kind of day.

            It was after dinner, and Harry was in the library while Ron and Hermione were busy with studying for their exams. Or, Hermione was busy with looking up ways to get Rita Skeeter fired and researching house elf history while Ron was trying to get Crookshanks to eat something Fred and George had dropped in the common room.

            So Harry was in the library, and he was supposed to be researching defensive spells against gargoyles or bewitched hedgehogs or something, but mostly he stared at the tiny, faint scratches of text from the enormous book and tried not to nod off. He didn’t want to dream about that house on the hill or the graveyard again.

            Harry almost didn’t notice when Cedric brushed past his table, and he nearly missed Cedric’s deep frown and stony gaze as he headed over to another table. His shoulders were hunched, and his satchel nearly burst with books.

            Harry rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, doing his best to ignore Cedric ignoring him.

            To distract himself, Harry made the now-perfunctory eye contact with Cho, who had looked up from her notes on the table to his right just in time. She gave him a small, stressed smile, and then noticed Cedric, off in a corner by himself. Her eyes flicked between Harry and Cedric, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head. Harry was unprepared for such varied and complicated facial cues; he blinked and frowned back.

            Cho sighed so quietly it might have been the sound of a page turning, then pointed at Cedric. Harry nodded and mouthed, _“What’s up with him?”_

Cho responded with a shrug and a whisper. “ _Not sure. Should we ask him?”_

Apparently, even the faintest breath of speech reached the ears of Madame Pince, who glared at them so fiercely from her perch behind her desk that Cho’s ears turned pink.

            Harry wasn’t in the mood to study or listen to Madame Pince, so he tossed his books into his bag and tried not to make the chair squeak as he rose. Cho got up too; for once, her friends weren’t with her, and the bags under her eyes were as pronounced as Harry’s. She looked relieved as they left the library together; she shoved her notes shoved into her bedazzled, fuzzy pink bag, and grasped her box of tissues labeled “CRY THE STRESS AWAY!!!!” with vindictive fervor.

            “You’d think we were whooperups, the way Madame Pince acts!” Cho laughed in the uncontrollable way overtired people do, tossing her barely-brushed hair back as she sank against the side of the library entrance.

            Harry wasn’t sure what “whooperup” meant, but he managed a chuckle as he leaned against the wall facing Cho. “Yeah, she’s batty. So what d’you think is up with Cedric? He hasn’t talked to you, has he?”

            Cho shook her head, picking at the pieces of fake fuzz on her bag. “No, it really looks like he’s got the morbs or something. I overheard his friend Zoe, you know, the new Quidditch player, say to—I think her name is Bertie, that’s what Michael told me, yes, Zoe told Bertie that Cedric wasn’t really hanging out with them lately. And that he wants to be by himself a lot.”

            Harry’s frown deepened. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

            “No. It doesn’t.”

            They let the silence settle in the air for a bit, their thoughts meandering through the hushed space between them.

            After a few minutes, Cho spoke in a word-jumbled rush, “Have you been keeping up with Quidditch at all?”

           Harry shook his head ruefully. “No, I keep thinking of the World Cup disaster and…things like that. I know about some matches though.” He glanced up at Cho’s I’ve-been-awake-for-48-hours-and-I-need-a-lifeline-face. “I heard from Dean and Seamus that the Tornados are doing really well this year.”

           Cho lit up, looking smug as she smoothed her hair. “Yes, they really are. It’s to be expected, what with Finwick being on the top of his game and Birch being such a great motivator, he makes the whole team knit each other their official league gloves and everything. Plus there’s Singh and O’Toole, their not-so-secret relationship has really given the team the boost it’s needed throughout the season. Excellent Beaters, the both of them.”

          Harry couldn’t help but smile at Cho’s enthusiasm as she talked about the professional players like they were her casual acquaintances, like they went out for tea and biscuits once a week. “Don’t tell Ron this,” he mock-whispered, crouching down conspiratorially, “but I’m glad the Tornados are doing well.”

          Cho giggled and winked clumsily, cupping her hand to the side of her mouth. “Your secret’s safe with me. Why does he even like the Chudley Cannons, anyway? They’re at the bottom of the league every year.”

          Harry shrugged, ignoring his stiffening knees as he maintained his crouch. “Ron’s always loved the underdog.”

          Cho snorted, but kept her derisive comments to a minimum, instead chatting about how her Mum and Dad became fans because one of the captains might have been “one of Mum’s childhood friends from her hometown, I mean no one knew for sure, it was a really long time ago, but that captain actually met my parents because the team was doing a promotional tour in the area and they had a long talk and she’d even given them her autograph,” and that they’d been fans ever since. “My parents became super passionate about supporting them, because of their teamwork and also Captain Jay Li,” she concluded, sounding like she’d told this story thousands of times before, “And at this point my whole family has become their biggest fans. We all have jerseys and posters and everything.”

         Harry nodded. He enjoyed listening to Cho, but the nagging image of Cedric by himself in the library wouldn’t leave him alone, so he squinted at her a bit and said slowly, “That’s great. But, er……d’you think we should talk to Cedric?”

         Cho sighed and closed her eyes, playing with her hair in methodical twists of her finger. She was quiet for a few moments before glancing at him and responding, “Sorry, sorry, I just—when I’m scared or unsure about something, I tend to ramble about the daftest things. Distraction, and all that. Anyway, Cedric. I dunno, if his mates can’t get him to open up, can we? Yes, we’re soulmates, but that doesn’t mean we can magically fix whatever problem he’s having, y’know?”

         Harry finally sat next to her, knees aching as he ignored the small groups of students coming in and out of the library, occasionally sending them curious glances. “Your rambling’s nice to listen to. And yeah, I dunno, but we might as well ask him, yeah?”

          Cho nodded, clutching tufts of her bag like an anchor. “You’re right, of course. But I—“ she stopped, swallowed, and said in a very quiet, wobbly voice, “When I first found out we were soulmates and everything, I thought it’d be a bit like the books and movies and things. Marietta’s always going on about how soulmate tropes have saturated the literary market, but I’ve always loved reading soulmate genre stories. It was so…nice, to read about people who were destined for each other, in all sort of ways, no matter what. And I suppose…” she paused, smiling slightly to herself, “I suppose I thought that having a soulmate would be a bit more _magical_.”

          Harry sighed in a shaky way, too drained to laugh. “I never really thought I’d get one at all, let alone you two. My aunt and uncle….they didn’t talk about it much, and when they did…it wasn’t pleasant. I learned about them in primary, like everyone does, but I still don’t know much about it. The teachers kind of rushed through it, and I never paid much attention to that stuff.”

         He did his best to repress the memories flashing in his skull, like the flashlights Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would use to wake him up from the cupboard. Cho hiccupped and very carefully reached for his hand. He slowly wrapped his fingers around hers. It was kind of sweaty, but nice. “Hey,” Cho said, “I’m glad you and Cedric are my soulmates.” She let go of his hand after another moment of fingers locking and hearts thrumming.

         Harry dragged a smile across his face. “Thanks. Same to you.”

         They leaned their heads against the wall and breathed.

         Cho whisper-rambled about how nervous she was for her O.W.L.S. and how silly it was that tesst decided their academic futures and how Marietta wrote little poems on her arms when she was bored and how Michael read comic books when he wasn’t training for next year’s Quidditch matches and that she was really, really scared for the O.W.L.S., and Harry was starting to tune her out when Cedric skulked out of the library, glaring at his feet as his satchel bit into his shoulder blades.

         Cho rubbed some ink off of her cheek and mumbled hoarsely, “We should talk to him.”

         Harry nodded, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Yeah.”

         They both yawned as Cedric disappeared down a corridor.

         Cho sat up straighter and cursed. “Why am I letting one test get in the way of helping a friend?”

         Harry forced himself to stand, thinking about the hedges from the maze swallowing him up. His books seemed to weigh as much as boulders. “We’ll talk to him another time.”

         Cho nodded, standing on wobbly knees as her bag weighed her down as well. “Yes we will. You both have to win the last task, alright?”

         Harry grimaced. “I’ll try.”

         Cho frowned she adjusted her robes. “I didn’t bet anything on this one, but you two should definitely win. Statistically speaking.”

         Harry felt his ears heat up and wondered how Cho could look so pretty all of the time. “I solemnly swear that I’ll try to.”

         “Good.”

         They shook hands, like it was a business deal or a blood pact, before setting off to their respective common rooms.

         There were a lot of things to worry about, Harry realized as he settled into his favorite armchair, but having soulmates didn’t have to be one of them.

          He smiled as he pictured Aunt Vernon and Uncle Petunia hearing him say such a deranged, preposterous notion.

TWENTY-FOUR

          On the morning of the Third Task, Harry ate his eggs and toast without throwing up.

          Ron and Hermione squabbled over the spells Harry should remember the most.

          Lunchtime came and went in a blur of sandwiches, a good-luck pat on the back from Dean, and Hermione running off to find “damning evidence” against Rita Skeeter. Ron kept telling him about his siblings’ wand techniques.

         Harry met with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who hugged him too-tight and wished him well, and he felt a balloon of gratitude float inside his chest; he had to wipe his eyes when they went to find Ron and Ginny and Fred and George and Hermione to ask about their exams.

         He had to be reminded to tie his shoes before heading off to meet with the other champions.

          Ludo Bagman and Rita Skeeter ambushed him as soon as he arrived to the deserted maze arena, asking him if he wanted an exclusive interview and if he felt prepared. Harry brushed past them and stood by Fleur, Viktor, and Cedric. He felt an odd sense of camaraderie with them; sure, he wanted to win, but they looked just as frazzled and bone-tired as he felt. Fleur, surprisingly, was the one who greeted him with the most warmth with a peck on the cheek.

         She smiled and patted his shoulder, bending down so one else heard. “Because of you, my soulmate is happy and safe. Best of luck.”

         Harry fought his blush and mumbled awkwardly, “Thanks. You too.”

         Krum was too busy muttering spells and instructions to notice anyone else, and Cedric stood off to the side, with a fierce expression of determination and—was it hunger?—on his face as his gaze locked on the maze blowing in the breeze in front of them.

         Neither Harry nor Cho had met with him. Harry didn’t feel as guilty as he should have; if Cedric didn’t want to talk, then Harry would focus on surviving the Third Task and nothing else.

         Before long, Professor Dumbledore and Karkaroff and Madame Maxime and a veritable swarm of professors, students, families, and official ministry personnel crowded the stands. Professor Flitwick struck up the student-run band, and Ludo Bagman’s tittering official-statement-prattling was drowned out by a tuba shooting tiny fireworks out of its bell.

        Professor Dumbledore said something about “the culmination of a year’s worth of inter-school unity,” but Harry wasn’t paying much attention; Cedric had walked closer to the maze, hand outstretched, and for a moment, in the faint sunlight, it looked as though the maze reached back.

       The cannon blasted.

       The final task began.

       Someone—Harry glanced behind him—Professor Moody shoved him into the maze as the other champions strode forward.

       Curiously, Cedric hung back, standing completely still as Krum and Fleur set off in different directions. Harry caught up to him at the crossroads. Left or right. No other choice.

       “May the best man win.” Cedric’s voice broke the heavy silence, and Harry glanced up at him in surprise. The other boy was still staring straight ahead, jaw set, but he had spoken just the same, for what seemed like the first time in weeks.

       Harry managed, “Yeah. Good luck.”

       They glanced at each other before separating, Harry heading down the left fork while Cedric walked quickly down the right.

       The maze was a peculiar place.

       As he walked further away from the other champions and the cheering crowds, the mist thickened around his legs. The leaves darkened until the hedges seemed like walls made of   shadow. The air seemed to whisper past his ears in a voice that was not quite human.

       Harry gripped his wand, trying to think of Hermione’s color-coded chart and Ron telling him how Charlie fought off dragons on a nearly daily basis. He leaned against the side of a hedge to ground himself, and he continued on.

       He avoided the gnarled, twisted paths, and the corridors that only appeared in the corner of his eyes; a flash of light, the suggestion of something watching him, a decrepit mansion, an ancient forest, the tinkling of a bicycle’s bell—Harry only saw and heard them for the briefest moment before the visions flickered out of sight.

       Harry wondered if there was no way out.

       He trudged on, trying to find the quickest route, the one that would take him to the Triwizard Cup, the one that he would survive. His footsteps left no imprints in the ground. The fog thickened. Now and again, he would brush off cobwebs, listen to the faint rustlings ahead and behind him, and try to chant the seconds under his breath. He always lost count.

       Minutes or hours or days later, Harry came across an old woman. Her eyes were as dark as her skin, and the bindi on her forehead gleamed in the faint light of her lantern. Her smile, wrinkling her wizened face, was not unkind. She spoke in a low, even rasp. “Would you like to rest?”

       Harry bit his lip. “I don’t want to be rude,” he began in a rusty voice, resisting the warm tea wafting out of the teapot dangling from the lantern, “but I have a tournament to win. Are you—are you an enchantment?”

     The old woman shrugged. “Does it matter?”

     “I…I suppose not.”

      She wrapped her worn sari tighter around her stout frame as a draft blew behind her, whipping Harry’s hair back. “Well? Would you like a rest or not?”

      Harry wondered if the other champions were chatting with old ladies on their way to victory, and said, “No, but thank you for the offer.”

      She peered at him with eyes like night and commanded, “Rest.”

      Harry scratched his mosquito-bothered ear and asked, “You aren’t going to let me pass until I sit with you, are you?”

      The old woman grinned, showing her missing teeth. “Yes.”

       “And if I refuse…?”

       She looked at him.

        Harry did not flinch. He carefully removed his shoes, sat down on an intricately woven carpet, and accepted a chipped teacup, hoping that time stood still and that this odd visit wouldn’t last too long; all of his training was useless in the face of proper tea-time etiquette. He had the feeling that if he lifted his wand against her that he would lose the tournament as surely as Crabbe or Goyle would.

       The old woman took the teapot off the lantern with gnarled hands, and filled his cup with vindictive satisfaction. Her voice was a lot less raspy now that they had both sipped their tea. It tasted like the tea at Mrs. Figg’s, the kind she used when one of her cats had a birthday, and Harry felt almost comforted by the old woman’s occasional humming until she said, “The way ahead is difficult. Remember the old stories, and you should pass the final test.”

       Harry frowned, staring into nearly-finished cup of tea. “Final test?”

       The old woman rolled her eyes. “Yes, Harry Potter. You’ve passed all the others. Now you’ve got to pass the last one.”

       Harry decided that asking how she knew his name was a waste of time. “Alright. Was—was this a test?”

       The old woman barked a laugh. “How should I know? I’m in the maze, same as you.” Seeing his skeptical glance, she stood up, lantern clanking against her arm, and continued. “Before you ask, I don’t believe I have a name. You didn’t bother to think of one.”

      “ _What_ \-- ? Never mind. May I please leave?”

       She huffed a bit as he stood as well, blowing a strand of silver-dark-whatever-hair out of her eyes. “Yes. No need to sound so impatient.”

       Harry sighed. “I have a task to win.”

       The old woman nodded, mirth fading into a solemn expression. “Do you know the story of the farmer’s wife?”

       Harry blinked. “No—wait. Yes, it was a footnote in Dr. Bhat’s book. The one Cho gave to me.” Yes, it was coming back to him, the small print of the book burrowed into his mind: _The farmer’s wife had come home from the market and found her pet mongoose covered in blood. Thinking the mongoose had killed her child, the farmer’s wife had struck the mongoose with a large stone. Rushing into her child’s room, the farmer’s wife was shocked to discover a dead snake lying next to the sleeping baby. The farmer’s wife turned back to thank the mongoose, but it was already dead._

        The old woman smirked. “Good. Remember who the mongoose is.”

        Harry nodded, not sure how else to respond.

        The old woman bowed her head. “Win for us, will you?”

        Her sari gleamed in the light of the lantern. Harry thought for a moment and said, “We’ll win together.”

        “Very wise.”

         Harry woke up.

         He was leaning against a hedge that was wrapping vines around his legs. He struggled to scramble away as he nearly shouted, “ _Lumos!”_

         The vines instantly retreated into the hedge, and Harry staggered upright, almost tripping on a root—no, it wasn’t a root—Harry shook his head—

         It was his almost-empty teacup.

         He set it aside, muttering a quick, “Thanks for the tea,” before walking deeper into the maze.

         He was only twenty steps into his new path before he heard shouts and saw flashing spell-light permeate through the fog in front of him. Harry raced forward, adrenaline and fear energizing him as the guttural shouts and lights became louder and more distinct.

         The fog seemed to only thicken as he got closer, like wool or peasoup. He twitched at every noise. His wand sent sparks up his arm every time he saw another faint burst of light. What was happening? Was someone being attacked? Was it one of the champions? Was it whoever put his name in the goblet of fire? The world kept darkening—Harry heard a cold, high-pitched laugh, and a flash of green blocked out everything but his heart pulsing in his teeth— _what was hidden in the fog?_ —he had to win—

         Blood splattered onto his shoes. A dead bird rolled by his feet.

         Something was _crooning._

         Harry rubbed his glasses frantically as the soft, keening melody grew louder. The back of his neck prickled. He turned around—

         Shroud in fog was a creature consumed by hunger. The head of a mad hare stared at him with empty eyes, its human ears quivering at Harry’s every movement. Badger’s claws dug into the earth as the creature shifted into a pounce, its skeletal frame wreathed in mist—it sang a haunting cry for blood—

         The creature leaped forward, and Harry dropped down to a roll as its claws skimmed his robes. Disoriented by the sudden rush of earth and roots and landing hard on his arm, Harry struggled to see where the beast would attack next. His ears rang with dark song. 

         The monster lunged from the left, screeching for flesh, claws arcing upward--

         Harry dived for his fallen wand and screamed, “ _Reducto!”_ and the creature burst apart into wisps of hedge-leaves, its song still tingling in the air.

         He walked on, heart hammering in his ears.

         The lights of the spells were close now; Harry shook his head, trying to get the singing out of his skin as a spell sparked over his head, fizzing out as soon as it hit the wall of fog—a hand shot out of the fog--

          “Help!”

_Was it real?_

           Harry ignored his shaking hands and strode towards the gurgled cries, the hand disappearing into the mist.

_Was it real?_

           The human cries were getting louder with every step.

_Was it--?_

            The fog cleared.

            Cedric staggered upright a few steps in front of him, nose and leg bloody, eyes wild. His pale skin looked ghastly in the dim light. He clutched his wand in a bruised hand and opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. He took a step towards Harry.

            Harry raised his wand. Cedric’s gaze fixed on his own.

            _Who’s the mongoose?_

Cedric took a step closer.

            Harry slowly lowered his wand and croaked, “You alright?”

            Cedric sagged, wiping the blood off his nose hastily before grunting, “’M alright. Krum’s not. Got attacked by….by that thing, I was only just able to fend it off.”

            He pointed towards the other boy, who was lying face-first in the dirt. “Krum was possessed, I’m sure of it. After the attack, he—“ Cedric spit something dark out of his mouth—“he attacked me, and I managed to Stun him just in time. Was going to send up a flare before you came.”

            Harry remembered to breathe. “I’ll do it.”

            He flicked his wand up at the sky; immediately, red sparks shot upwards into the murky sky.

Cedric managed a quick, “Thanks,” before turning and hobbling away from Krum.

            After a few labored steps past Krum, Cedric turned his head and mumbled, “The cup’s this way. I saw it.”

            Harry wasn’t sure if this was an invitation or a challenge, but he shuffled behind Cedric and muttered spells under his breath just in case.

            It was unbearably quiet. There was no wind, no fog, and no old women offering tea. Even the beast’s crooning was silenced. All that could be heard was Cedric’s ragged breathing as the two of them lurched onwards. Eventually, the Triwizard Cup came into view in front of them. It was down a single, narrow passageway, and it shone like a beacon in the heart of the maze.

            Cedric glanced behind himself and finally spoke. “You didn’t hex me, and you could’ve. You should get the cup.”

            Harry frowned. “What? No, you win. Take it.”

            Cedric shook his head, wincing at the effort. “Look, you’ve practically won all the other tasks. You even saved Gabrielle. I should have done that, but I didn’t. You can be the Triwizard Champion. You deserve it.”

            Harry was confounded by the sheer amount of pigheaded nobility Cedric Diggory seemed to contain. “This isn’t about you or me or the other tasks. This is about who won. And you have. Take the cup.”

            Cedric leaned against a hedge, stock-still. “No.”

            Harry bit back a scream. “What--? Are you _really_ going to do this? Why are you even being so bloody nice when you haven’t so much as looked at us in weeks?”

            Harry could have sworn he saw Cedric flinch in the shadows. “I—I’m sorry, alright? Is that what you want to hear? I just….” He sighed. “I should’ve beaten the Horntail, I should have saved Fleur’s sister, I should’ve gotten on the front page of the _Prophet_ , and no, it’s not just about me, but you’d think—“ his breath rattled through him—“you’d think I should’ve been fucking noticed by _someone_.”

            Harry didn’t know what to say. Cedric continued, allowing the vines to wrap around his hands. “I’ve always been so—I have lots of friends, but most of them don’t really know me, and Rita Skeeter just thinks I’m the Hogwarts Champion for my looks, and I _know_ what everyone says about Hufflepuff, and you’re fucking fourteen, and you’ve beaten dragons and saved people’s lives, and defeated You-Know-Who when you were, what, eleven? And Dad talks as if I’ve already won, but I’m not cut out for it. I’m no hero. I’m too—I’m not—I can’t win, because you’re the real champion, alright? Go on.” He snapped the vines off of one of his hands and jabbed a finger at the cup, looking like it too every ounce of self-control to stand still. “Take it.”

            He paused, then said, “Sorry for swearing.”

            Harry swallowed. His muscles ached. His robes were torn. He didn’t have the right words. He muttered, “Alright.”

            After what felt like a thousand steps, Harry shuffled past Cedric, ignoring the part of himself that begged to stay behind, and reached victory.

            _Well_ , he thought bitterly, _at least no one’s tried to kill me._

            Harry grasped the Triwizard Cup, and everything went dark.

TWENTY-FIVE

            Cedric slumped in his chair, and forced his eyes to stay open. Harry twitched in his sleep, oblivious as he lay in his hospital bed.

            Cho sat across from him, and Cedric was very glad she was here too. He didn’t know what he’d do if he was alone with the _it’s your fault your fault your fault_ kind of thoughts running on repeat through his brain.

            Cho picked at her hair and cried too much. _Harry’s fine_ , _you’re fine, you’ll be alright,_ she’d think, and her mind knew this, but the rest of her didn’t. Tears fell out of stinging eyes and snot leaked out of her nose just the same.

            She didn’t want to sit and wait in unbearable silence, in a tiny white room, watching Harry’s breathing, the rusty sky in the window dissolving into the dark.

The unsaid words ate at her, made her hands shake. Sometimes she would babble about Quidditch trivia and 19th century sayings and her favorite kinds of shampoo to expel the feeling of uselessness squeezing her chest.

            The two of them never wanted to leave, but when Ron and Hermione or one of their own friends would arrive to take the next watch, Cho and Cedric always felt relieved.

TWENTY-SIX

The wands—his parents—the Death Eaters—the house on the hill--

            Voldemort was alive.

            Professor Moody was someone else entirely.

            Harry shivered when he opened his eyes, reality searing into his brain like the lights that hung above his hospital bed.

            His arm stung; Harry glanced down and flinched as he saw the red, jagged scar from Wormtail’s knife.

            It had been like his nightmares, dueling with Lord Voldemort, dodging killing curses and worse by ducking behind headstones, seeing Professor Moody turn into—into Mr. Crouch’s son-- but it was real.

            That was the worst part.

            Harry wanted to go back to sleep, but more memories nagged at his brain; that sleeping drought Dumbledore had finally given him had helped, but now….now Harry had to wake up. He sluggishly reached for his battered glasses lying on his bedside table, and blinked the world into focus.

            “You’re awake, then.”

            His limbs tensed, preparing for another attack. Harry forced himself to breathe evenly. His head sank back against his pillow, and Harry didn’t think he had ever been so grateful for a bed before.

To the left, sitting ramrod straight in a wooden chair, was Marietta Edgecombe. She was looking up from a book. Her short curly hair reached just past her ears, and a small mole on her cheek marked her brown skin. Her dark eyes stared at him as one would at drying paint, and announced in a nasally voice, “I’ll tell the others, shall I?”

            She smoothed her robes in the same way Cho did, and gracefully exited the room.

            Harry let out a gust of air and rubbed his forehead.

            Moments later, Ron, Hermione, Cho, Cedric, Marietta, Michael, and two older students Harry had never seen before burst into the small room, a sea of concerned and excited and tearful faces gaping at him.

            Ron and Hermione reached him first, then Cho and Cedric. The others hung back, sneaking curious glances at him from behind the group.

            “Thank goodness we got to you before Fudge did,” Hermione said, frizzy hair askew, eyes shimmering as she flopped down in the chair formerly occupied by Marietta.

            “We’ve been doing round-the-clock visits to keep the Ministry out of here,” Ron added, looking paler than usual as he stood on Harry’s right.

            Cho wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and said in a shaky voice, “Fudge has been b-bothering Dumbledore about Professor—no, Barty Crouch Jr.—since…..well, since you came out of the maze.”

            Cedric didn’t say much, just bowed his head and murmured something that sounded like, “Good riddance.”

            The first thing Harry said was, “Cedric, you’re completely daft.”

            They looked at him.

            Harry sighed. “Meant to say it in the maze.”

            Ron laughed a little too loudly while Cho giggled uncontrollably.

            Cedric rubbed the back of his neck. “I reckon you’re right about that.” He looked at Cho. “I’m s—“

            “So is the Dark Lord of Darkness really back?”

            “Marietta!” Cho gasped, looking aghast as her friend shoved past Michael Corner’s lithe frame.

            Harry looked at Marietta Edgecombe’s skeptical face and said, “Yes. Voldemort’s back. Tried to kill me and everything.”

            Marietta nodded curtly and went back to flipping through her book.

            Michael Corner pointed to Marietta while she wasn’t looking and mouthed, _Sorry_. Harry shrugged.

            The two older students—were they Cedric’s friends?—looked at him with a mix of wonder and worry. The taller one with dark skin asked in a melodic cadence, “You alright then? Cedric here was worried sick.” She said it almost accusingly, golden eyes boring into Harry’s.

            “Look—“

            “Zoe.” Cedric put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s sorted.”

            Cedric’s other friend, a girl with red hair and light skin and wide eyes, announced that she was going to fetch pastries for the occasion. Zoe followed suit, muttering about icing consistency on the cauldron cakes, shoulders less tensed. Michael and Marietta left to help them, Marietta commenting to Harry, “You talk in your sleep,” right before she crossed the threshold.

            Ron and Hermione looked like they wanted to talk about many things, and Cho and Cedric looked like they’d rather do anything but talk, so Harry pointed to his soulmates and said, “Stay here.”

            Ron and Hermione stood, saying quickly, “We’ll be back in a mo,” while they stepped outside for pastries.

            As soon as the door closed, Cedric burst out, “I’m sorry. To both of you. I wasn’t being fair, I should have talked to you before the Third Task, I wasn’t—I had some daft ideas in my head.” He smiled tightly. “It’s sorted now.”

            Harry and Cho glanced at each other. Harry managed, “’S’alright.”

            Cho injected cheer into her voice, clutching her hands behind her back. “Apology accepted! Don’t do it again!”

            Cedric shook his head. “Yeah.”

            Cho sat slumped in Marietta’s chair while Cedric stood on the right of the bed. Both of them looked like they hadn’t slept in days, robes wrinkled, hair unkempt, eyes hollow. Cho’s fingernails were nearly bitten off, and Cedric kept yanking at tufts of his hair.

            Harry mumbled, “I’m sorry. You know, for all of this.” He smiled grimly. “It isn’t—I can’t—I’m the Boy Who Lived. You’re stuck with it now.”

            Cedric still his hands. “Don’t apologize.”

            Cho sighed. “Harry, it’s ok. Cedric, it’s ok. Self, it’s ok. There. We’ll work this out as a team.”

            Harry and Cedric nodded, and suddenly Cho got up and pulled a camera out of her bag. “I don’t know when we’ll have another chance to take a picture together, maybe next year, who knows, but we promised we’d do that, mum gave it to me for Christmas, and I think—I think it will give us something to do.”

            Harry wasn’t in the mood for posing, and Cedric looked equally uncomfortable as Cho adjusted the lens and set up a tripod; her bag must’ve been like Hermione’s, small on the outside and cavernous on the inside.

            As Cho fiddled with the equipment, Cedric muttered, “About what I said before…I want to be noticed, y’know? Not just by my housemates. But not if it’s at anyone’s expense, especially yours.” He huffed a laugh. “I suppose Dad will say I’ve beaten you again.”

            Harry shook his head while Cho cursed at the rickety tripod. “We’re both champions. We’ll split the reward.”

            “But—“

            “You’re a good wizard, alright? Your Transfiguration at the dragon in the First Task was really great, you got to the merpeople the fastest in the Second Task, and in the Third Task you Stunned a possessed international Quidditch star. We’re both champions, sod off.”

            Cedric’s ears reddened as Cho sent them a thumbs-up in agreement. “Thanks.”

            Cho strode to the hospital bed after examining the camera one last time. “I can’t believe my soulmates are Triwizard champions.”

            Cedric mumbled something that sounded like, “Don’t mention it.”

            Harry said, “Your book from the holidays saved my life in the maze, and I know you practiced the Bubblehead Charm with Cedric. It was all thanks to you, really.”

            Cho blushed and squeaked, “The camera’s about to go off! Make funny faces!”

            Harry had never been in a magical photograph before. It was quite different from looking at the Dursleys pose for their photos, all pristinely coordinated, every surface scrubbed and cleaned and polished; they had looked like they were in a museum on display.

Harry, Cho, and Cedric crammed around the hospital bed, Harry squeezed in the middle as Cho’s hair stuck to the left side of his face and Cedric’s chin almost touched his right ear. He didn’t know what sort of faces they were pulling, but in moments they were all laughing softly, not quite happy but not wrecked with nerves either. It was a good kind of warmth, having them close.

            After a few seconds, the camera stopped flashing. Cedric leaned back, and Cho brushed her hair behind her shoulder.

            Harry’s arm still stung, Cedric refused to look up from the floor, and Cho didn’t stop messing with the camera until Ron and Hermione and the rest arrived with sweets. Harry didn’t eat anything, and everyone else got crumbs on the floor and chatted stiltedly about the weather.

         The air was still and cold, the clock above his head ticked off-rhythm, and Madame Pomfrey shooed everyone out with the fierceness of a witch half her age, eyeing the crumbs and scattered napkins as one would a swarm of Blast-Ended Skrewts. 

          But Harry smiled as the camera flashed, again and again, in his memory.

           He looked at his scars and his skin and didn’t feel sick.

TWENTY-SEVEN

            The end of the year arrived with bright sun, green fields of grass, and plenty of news for the Wizarding World to digest and spit back up again.

            Chiefly among these concerns was that Rita Skeeter wasn’t announcing all of this gossip herself; no, she was being investigated for illegal Animagi practices thanks to an anonymous tip in the form of a beetle trapped in a jar.

            (“Hermione, we shouldn’t trap her in that jar forever, it’s not right!”

            “Skeeter’s where she belongs, Cedric—“

            “Don’t you care about justice? Think of all the people she’s deceived!”

            “…..Oh, alright. But I’ll make sure she never writes a proper article without my express permission.”

            “Agreed.”)

            Next there was the announcement from Dumbledore himself that the Dark Lord had risen again, but surely the Minister of Magic himself had destroyed the last credible source in that whole affair; yes, an imposter madman at Hogwarts was concerning to say the least, but You-Know-Who coming back from almost certain death was most definitely a delusion in poor Harry Potterr’s shattered mind. Triwizard champion he may be, the boy was surely unstable.

            (“Harry! Harry, wake up!”

            “I—what?”

            “You were, er, dreaming again.”

            “Oh. Right.”

            “…You want to play some midnight chess? It’ll sharpen your mind, that’s what Mum always says.”

            “Yeah. That’d be ok.”)

            What the Wizarding World didn’t know could fill many, many libraries. It did not know, for instance, that Harry Potter, Ron Weasely, and Hermione Granger celebrated Skeeter’s sudden retirement with complimentary Firewhiskey in Hagrid’s hut. The general population could care less about Harry waking up in a cold sweat, still hearing the knife scrape into his skin, blood filling his vision as chilled laughter grated against his ears. To many, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasely were mere footnotes to the tragic life of the Boy Who Lived; the average _Daily Prophet_ reader did not see them skip rocks into the lake for the giant squid to catch, nor did they know about the countless hours spent poring over ancient scrolls about house-elves, and messing about with Fred and George’s leftover bag of tricks, and talking about everything from Voldemort to the best candy at Zonko’s.

            Of course, not even an inside source could have ever discovered that Harry Potter had soulmates. Even Rita Skeeter in her prime didn’t spy the tricks the Boy Who Lived had tattooed up his sleeve. The masses did not see Harry and Cho go shopping for books like Dr. Bhat’s and for a slew of detective novels penned by Gilderoy’s Lockhart’s distant cousin one rainy afternoon. No one tipped off a reporter when Cho handed Cedric a tiny, hand-knitted sweater for his fragile owl’s constitution while they chatted in the kitchens, and not one member among the _Prophet_ ’s loyal readership turned up their noses when Harry and Cedric burned every article they could find by Rita Skeeter.

            To Rita’s credit, soulmates weren’t generally reported in the news. They were quite commonplace, after all; most everyone at the _Daily Prophet_ had a soulmate, be it a lover, a friend, or family member. Most every reader had a soulmate themselves, so to read about it in a paper known for its exciting spin on the facts was an unthinkably dull notion.

           (The _lack_ of a soulmate, it should be noted, was catalogued extensively; countless articles were written on the subject, on the magic behind such a cursed fate, how those without soulmates often lived lives devoid of happiness, and that having a disagreeable soulmate was preferable to none at all.)

           Of course, the soulmates of famous individuals was a different matter altogether. Had Rita Skeeter discovered that Harry Potter had not one, but two soulmates, the _Prophet_ would have profited immensely from the shock and the inquiries and the follow-up interviews.

            Alas, the Wizarding World carried on in ignorance, content to read about the Boy Who Lived and his escapades during the morning commute.

            (“We’ll save you a seat on the train, mate. Go talk to your ordained snog partners of destiny.”

            “ _Ronald_!”

            “….Er, so. Cho, Cedric. Have good summers, yeah? I’ll see you next year, I s’pose.”

            “Definitely.”

            “How about we all write each other? Ooh, it’ll be like when I was pen-pals with my cousins when I was little!”

            “Yeah, sure, we can do that! I’m going on a trip to with my parents, with the reward money and all. Should be fun.”

            “I’ll be…with the Dursleys.”

            “Why do you have to stay with them again?”

            “It’s because of my mother, Cedric—“

            “We know, I know, Ron and Hermione told us, but still—“

            “Cho, the train’s about to leave, we should go.”

            “I vote for a goodbye hug. All in favor?”

            “Motion passed.”

            “…Hey, Harry. You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

            “…Harry…?”

            “I’ll be fine. Send lots of letters.”

            “We solemnly swear it.”)

            The public did not have dreams of the Dark Lord’s resurrection. They sipped their teas and read the government-funded news and complained about the price of cauldrons these days. Most refused to talk about such grisly topics at the dinner table; Dumbledore’s warnings fell on ears stuffed with cotton and Quick Quote Quills. Many parents angrily demanded that the Headmaster be dismantled for “inciting propaganda in students.”

            The Wizarding World did not think much of the truth.

They did not know a war was coming.

            Harry James Potter arrived at Number 4, Privet Drive with new scars and new nightmares. He had a knight from one of many midnight chess matches dangling around his neck; it had been the only Muggle piece in the set. Hermione’s lumpy socks fit his feet in odd ways, and they had lopsided lions prowling around the loose yarn. _Magic Around the World: A Comprehensive Study in South Asia_ was bookmarked next to Sirius’s newest letter stuffed in his trunk.

            He walked up the short driveway, that sterile, plain house looking the same as it always did.

            Harry was not the same. He was a Triwizard Champion. He had names on his wrists.

 

            END OF PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnd that's a wrap on Goblet of Fire! 
> 
> But wait, there's more!
> 
> So here's the plan: I'm going to roughly span books 4-7 with this wacky soulmate AU. (Just a heads up, The Half-Blood Prince segment will be pretty darn short in comparison to the GoF one. More on that down the line, we shall see, etc.)
> 
> THAT'S RIGHT. There's gonna be even more ot3 shenanigans!! 
> 
> I'm probably going to take a bit of a break because I have school starting, but trust me, I will be back with updates and the like.
> 
> Thank you all so much for leaving kudos, comments, bookmarks, and good vibes. Seriously, this means so much to me. 
> 
> Special thanks to Gods_Trumpet, a brilliant writer, plot theorist, and editor, as well as a kickass friend. Many hours of sleep were lost theorizing about house-elves, Harry's parents, the kind of friends Cedric would have, Cho's talents, the list goes on. Seriously, if you like quality fic, check out their work. They write gr8 Hannibal fic. 
> 
> GET READY FOR ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. The next installment (Part Two, I suppose) will feature: Harry's heritage, scrapbooks, the return of SPEW, teenage angst, identity epiphanies, Dumbledore's Army, leg warmers, and much, much more.


	9. Tea-Time with Mrs. Figg, Questions and Answers, and Letters Unopened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From what I've researched, Papaji and Mataji are ways to refer to parents in Punjabi. If I'm wrong, feel free to let me know. Same on the Gurdwara, the Sikh place of worship. If there's anything else that you'd like to address, feel free to let me know. As usual, my tumblr is toomanyfeelings5. Thanks!

 

ONE

            “Looks like it’s going to be another scorcher, Beth.“

            “That’s right, John. 34.4 degrees Celsius, can you believe it? Then again, with the heat wave we’re having—“

            “Too right, Beth. For the folks at home, especially the elderly or wee tykes: Make sure to hydrate, hydrate, hydrate! Stay indoors, close the shades, and eat some orange slices. We’ll get through this summer together.”

            “We care about all of you getting the proper care you need here at the station. We’re all in this bloody heat wave together, right? Make sure you find a cold area and stay there. Up next, we have a story about a man celebrating the birthday of the love of his life…his pet pig. Wendy reporting live on the scene—“

            _Click._

            Uncle Vernon turned the television off, wiping his brow irritably with his dinner napkin. “Too many crazies running about,” he muttered under his breath, craning his neck to eye a snowy-white feather mutinously. He swatted it off the gray leather couch with a meaty hand.

            Harry ducked behind the hydrangea bushes, sweat sticking to him even as the sun began to set. He leaned his forehead against the side of the house, right underneath the window looking into the Durlsey’s living room.

Still no news of the Wizarding World.

            Harry stood slowly, the world spinning into terribly dull focus. Clouds were starting to form above the identical houses. Maybe the reporters were wrong. Maybe a storm was coming.

            Harry rubbed his scar and started walking.

            The sky’s slit throat of red stained the houses in dying light. It was Harry’s favorite time to walk, because it was past dinnertime (Dudley and, by association, the rest of the household, was under a strict diet of raw vegetables), the Dursleys wouldn’t come looking for him for at least another hour, and it wasn’t quite night yet. He didn’t have to try to sleep.

            It was two weeks into the summer, and to Harry it felt like months. He kicked a stray pebble off the road, cleaned his dusty glasses, and wiped the sweat from his eyes. His shirt stuck to his back. He wandered aimlessly down the road, wand tucked in his pocket, just in case. Sometimes, he’d find a deserted patch of grass near the playground, and he would lie down, tearing chunks of grass out of the ground, not looking at anything in particular. He would breathe like he was drowning, rage and frustration slowly sinking into numb disappointment. It didn’t matter if the sky was robin-egg blue or roiling with storm clouds; the numbness and the anger just settled deeper into his chest.

            Harry kept walking this time.

            Distant sniggers and loud clangs were coming from the side street up ahead; Harry was sorely tempted to see what eight year old Dudley and his gang were threatening today when suddenly—

            “Be a dear and help me, won’t you?”

            Harry spun around to see Mrs. Figg hobbling toward him, a tin of cat food clutched in her veiny hand. Harry tried not to recoil as the smell of tuna blasted his nostrils, and he struggled to sound as polite as possible when he said, “What d’you need help with?”

            Mrs. Figg _tsked_ under her breath, waving the tin of food impatiently. “Old ladies don’t appreciate that tone, young man,” she scolded, thick eyebrows raised in amusement. She even waggled one long, crooked finger. “I need help finding Boris and Jeeli, those troublemakers are always getting up to mischief this time of night.”

            Harry brushed the hair out of his eyes as he shuffled closer towards her. Mrs. Figg always smelled like mint, tuna, and prunes, like most other venerable cat-loving elders. “Er….what do Boris and Jeeli look like?”

The old woman sniffed, squinting into some neighbor’s decorative shrubbery. “You’ve been to my home often enough, Harry Potter. I’d ought to think you’d know my dearies by now!” She cleared her throat while Harry tried not to roll his eyes; he could spend days in that woman’s house, but he would never know those cats’ names, innumerable as they were. “Boris is black and white, very round, always trying to catch some bird or rodent. Jeeli is orange, long-haired, squished face, but he’s a dear, really, even though he sheds. You know, one evening I was reading my magazines when Portia and Ashna—“

“I think it’d be best if we focus on finding your cats, Mrs. Figg.”

            The old woman huffed a laugh, adjusting her gold turban carefully as she stood a bit straighter, wincing as her back righted itself. “Help me find Boris and Jeeli, and we’ll consider your adolescent rudeness overlooked.”

            Harry shrugged and looked up the street for any signs of movement. There wasn’t any breeze, and the sun had slipped behind the neat rows of beige houses. The streetlights would come on soon, which meant Dudley, and by extension, Harry, would need to get home relatively soon. He picked up his pace despite the heavy, wilting air making it nearly impossible to find any motivation to move. Only Mrs. Figg seemed immune to the heat, stubbornly ignoring the sweat on her forehead as she hobbled on the sidewalk, tapping the tin can against her wooden cane.

            They walked in silence, Harry ahead, Mrs. Figg behind.

            Then—

            “Boris, get over here!”

            The creature that was presumably Boris the cat trotted towards his owner from a gap in a neighbor’s hedge, looking utterly smug. He was so massive that it seemed he was a block of interrupted shadow; only his small, pin-prick eyes distinguished him from the darkening surroundings. The cat-beast nuzzled Mrs. Figg’s long skirt affectionately as she set the tuna can on the pavement, patting Boris’s thick head fondly.

            Not long after, Harry spotted Jeeli strutting towards them from behind someone’s house, orange plume of a tail raised high in the air. He was a beacon in the dusk, yellow eyes appraising Harry with mild suspicion as he curled his tail around Mrs. Figg’s legs. Boris plopped in front of his owner and lapped at the tuna. Mrs. Fig whispered endearments under her breath and gazed at the cats as if they were her own children. Harry observed mildly that the Dursleys had never looked at him like that, and that Mrs. Figg cared more for her cats than they ever would for him.

            This was not a new thought, but Harry’s brain enjoyed reminding him of things, whether it was primary school humiliations or Voldemort touching his scar or how the Dursleys would turn the sink on the highest temperature when he washed dishes, so his hands were always red and raw afterwards. Privet Drive had nothing new to experience, just the same old snide remarks, and glares over hedges, and neighborhood watch meetings, and evening news. No wonder his mind ran on repeat. Harry was afraid that by the end of the summer, there would be nothing left in his head except for static, and dust, and memories he couldn’t stop re-living.

            “Would you like a cuppa, Harry Potter?”

            Harry glanced up from his shoes. Mrs. Figg was looking at him expectantly. Boris and Jeelie were purring so loudly they seemed to vibrate. “Er,” Harry said, trying to weight his options: what was worse, looking through Mrs. Figg’s scrapbook of cats again, or going back to Number 4, Privet Drive?—before finally responding, “Yeah, I’ll go.”

            It’s not like he had anyone else he wanted to spend time with.

            They had at least a half hour before his curfew.

            The cats followed their mother home, and now it was Harry who trailed behind.

            Mrs. Figg let the cats into the house first; they squeezed through the cat door, the pitter-patter of their feet fading as they found a soft space to sleep on. The old woman tugged the squealing door, holding it out for him. “After you,” she smiled, wrinkles creasing her light brown face.

            Harry took off his shoes and went inside. Immediately, the smell of tuna grew stronger, as did mint and mothballs and old wallpaper. He remembered spending hours here, looking at the black-and-white photos of strangers hung on the walls, the record collection piled in the corner of the main entrance, and magazines and crosswords scattered onto nearly every surface.

            “Harry, sit down, I can’t have you standing there like that.”

            He went into the living room where a few tabbies were lounging on the scratched carpet, and sank into the battered blue sofa. Cat hair immediately stuck to his clothes.

            Mrs. Figg was busying herself in the tiny kitchen, judging by the metal clanging and the hissing of the stove and the mumbled cursing, so Harry glanced around the room. Apparently, Mrs. Figg’s portraits of her cats had only increased in number; some looked content and smug, others fearful and nervous, and still others looked disdainful, even dangerous as they gazed from narrowed eyes. There were so many of them, it almost looked like the walls were made of cats and not striped wallpaper that was on the cusp of moldiness.

            There was a book written in another language on the small table next to the couch, on Harry’s left, and it looked a little like the excerpts of Indian texts in Dr. Bhat’s book. Mrs. Figg was Indian. Harry forgot that sometimes, so trained to view her as Wrong and Odd and Not Belonging in the Neighborhood. Of course she’d have books written in one of India’s languages. He didn’t pick it up, but he traced the letters on the spine with his fingers, lump suddenly in his throat—

            “You know you aren’t from Punjab, right?”

            Harry’s fingers skittered away from the book instantly. “What?”

            Mrs. Figg slowly set a chipped tea tray onto the table in front of the couch. The tea set was green and blue, and the handles had tiny, delicately bejeweled flower petals. Some of the cups were cracked, but they were well-polished, and they were all filled to the brim with tea. Steam wreathed Mrs. Figg’s face. “I said,” she paused as she fiddled with the spoons one more time before setting them down, “that you’re not from Punjab, so no need to look at that book all misty-eyed. It’s in Punjabi. A friend gave it to me many years ago.”

            “Oh.”

            The old woman waved her hand. “Have some tea, Potter.”

            Harry gingerly grasped a cup, the flower petals carving little grooves into his palm, as he sipped the aromatic tea. “I thought…well…I don’t know. Sorry for looking through your things.”

            “It’s quite alright.” She regarded him over the rim of her cup, finger tapping thoughtfully against the porcelain. “I suppose no one else told you that.”

            Harry shrugged. “No. I mean, they—the Dursleys—they haven’t got a clue.”

            “I don’t suppose they do.”

            One of the tabbies yawned, showing pink tongue and sharp teeth before curling closer to its companion. Mrs. Figg took a minute to admire them before continuing. “I’m from Punjab. Northern India, if you didn’t know. My parents brought me here when I was—oh, let’s see—younger than you are. I made plenty of trips back, to visit everyone over the holidays. Papaji and Mataji always drilled me in my Punjabi lessons before we took trips to see them, they were such stubborn parents. I even learned to write in it, wrote letters and everything…” She trailed off, staring into her tea with a wobbling lip. After a long moment, she set her cup down with trembling hands, dabbing her eyes with one of the napkins. “None of that,” she muttered to herself. “All hogwash now.” The other tabby twitched its ear in response.

            Harry nodded carefully, adjusting his grip on the cup. She was an old woman, he reasoned, and a batty one at that. “Er. How did you know my family isn’t from Punjab?”

            It took a minute for Mrs. Figg to focus on him, spectacles sliding off her broad nose. “Well,” she said breathily, “I didn’t know the Potters personally, but I had friends who did. Let me see—“

            “Wait, you _knew about_ my Mum and Dad?”

            Mrs. Figg frowned. “Of course I knew of them, what self-respecting member of the magical community didn’t?”

            Harry nearly spat out his tea, grabbing a fistful of napkin to wipe his face. “What—you—are you a witch?”

            The old woman’s dark eyes widened, and suddenly she was positively wheezing with laughter, willowy shoulders shaking, clutching her tea tightly in one hand while trying to catch her breath. “I’ve been waiting for _years_ for someone to ask me that, you can’t even imagine—“

            “Well?”

            “I’m a Squib, Harry.”

            He leaned back against the couch, gobsmacked. All this time, his elderly neighbor had been a _Squib_? “Why didn’t you say so?”

            She shrugged, still grinning. “Dumbledore’s orders, of course. He wanted to keep an eye on you without interfering too much. Sent me to make sure you were getting by, I took an oath and everything.”

            Harry’s head was still reeling. The tea sloshed about in its cup with abandon. “This _whole time_ ….no one ever said anything…”

            “Wouldn’t be good at my job if they did.”

            “Why—why tell me now?”

            Mrs. Figg sighed, finishing her tea with one last sip. “I reckon you deserve to know. This place, Privet Drive…it’s not right, for you and I to be here. If I had told you when you were younger, I would’ve been banished from Dumledore’s Order, branded a traitor just like that. I had to stick to the mission. But I couldn’t just let you be. Why d’you think I invited you over so many times, eh? To keep you out of that house.” She looked him square in the face, brown eyes meeting green, and Harry never thought that Mrs. Figg could look so serious. “I should have done more to help you, Harry. Sod the old coot’s orders, I should have done more. Times were different, there was a war—so many of us dropping like flies, didn’t know who to trust—but that’s no excuse.” She took a deep breath. “I’m also telling you now in case—in case you’re ever in danger. For your safety, do you understand? So you’d have some back-up if things go pear-shaped. Least I could do.”

            Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he drank the rest of his tea instead, trying not to slurp. A stray fly landed on the tray. “I—well—thanks. For telling me.”

            “You’re very welcome.”

            “So….so you knew someone who knew my parents? And—d’you know where my Dad’s family were from?”

            Mrs. Figg blinked, brow furrowing. The tabbies mewled in their sleep. “I can’t say I know the details. I only know that they weren’t from the North.”

            Harry nodded, trying to repress the disappointment swelling in his chest. “Alright.”

            She set her cup down at last, porcelain clattering onto the metal tray. The old woman glanced down at the droplets of tea stained onto her skirt, absently fixing her turban. Harry had seen people with turbans before on rare trips to London, but she was the only one in Privet Drive who wore one. The Dursleys always talked about it whenever they saw her. After a while, Mrs. Figg said, “I’ll walk you home.”

            “Mrs. Figg, I’m perfectly fine on my own—“

            “Nonsense. Get up, get up, move along now.”

            Harry sat up as Mrs. Figg bustled out of the room, looking almost panicky as she swung the front door open. He strode out the door, catching up to her in a few steps. The streetlights had just come on, and crickets sang to each other in the bushes. The moon was a sliver of light in the dark blue sky.

            Some of the neighbors were having a chat on one of the lawn, folding chairs comfortably occupied by that young couple Aunt Petunia was always going on about, thinking they were having extra-marital affairs, and that man from down the road, the one who Uncle Vernon was in a strange rivalry with over who had the best-maintained car. One of Dudley’s friends, Douglas, was there with his parents. It looked like he was asleep, head lolled. Harry and Mrs. Figg walked quickly past them, but not before their chatter died down to murmurs. The young couple tittered nervously as Mrs. Figg grasped Harry’s elbow, whispering loudly, “Is that—is that the boy who got sent to disciplinary school?”

            “Looks like it,” sneered the car man, cigar hanging from his mouth, “and with that batty old broad too.”

            “Oh, stop it,” hissed Douglas’s father, polo shirt wrinkling as he leaned towards the group. “It’s best if we ignore them. Who knows what trouble they’d cause if we pay them any mind.”

            “Yes,” Douglas’s mother nodded stiffly. “Don’t look at them at all, that’s what I say.”

            Mrs. Figg’s grip on Harry’s elbow tightened. Harry was acutely aware of the wand in his pocket. They hurried past, the hushed voices and glares ghosting behind them. Being in this neighborhood was to constantly expect a punch, or a stone to be thrown, or angry words to be scrawled on the front door, but instead the hatred was tucked away into family portraits, and scrubbed clean with pesticide, and concealed in civility.

            Harry and Mrs. Figg walked to Number 4, Privet Drive together.

            “Stop by some time, would you? I could use some help with the cats, poor dears don’t get enough love from me.”

            “Thanks, Mrs. Figg. I will.”

            Harry shut the door gently, and for a moment felt afraid for Mrs. Figg, alone on that street. But then Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon began to lecture him about staying out too late, their faces pinched and ruddy and too-close, hot air blowing against his face. When he was very small he would have flinched, but now he wanted to hex them to hell and back. He was too angry to think about Mrs. Figg anymore.

            After the interrogation, he slammed his door shut and collapsed onto the bed. He didn’t bother changing clothes. Harry sat up and drew his knees to his chest, like that would stop the dreams from coming.

TWO

            By the time summer’s first month came to an end, Harry had listened to enough evening news to prefer some news anchors over others, developed a habit of biting his nails and picking at scabs, and had begun to smell more and more like canned tuna.

            The Dursleys remarked on this, of course, with typical scorn. “Are you as batty as dear old Mrs. Figg?” Vernon asked, small eyes pinched in mirth.

            Petunia wiped her face primly with a lace napkin, adding, “Really, it’s not proper to smell like such—such poisonous food around the house. Dudders has to keep his strength up, after all.”

            Dudley grunted, glaring at the plate of broccoli and carrots and dip as if it had given him bad marks on his exams. Petunia patted his thick arm fondly while Vernon shoved a carrot into his mouth with resignation, the crunching sound reminding Harry of bone falling into cauldron. He picked his nails under the table.

            After dinner and the news, Harry stopped by Mrs. Figg’s. She patrolled the neighborhood on afternoons and late at night, so evening was as good a time as any for some tea and company.

            Harry quite liked the looks on the Dursleys’ faces when he came back covered in cat hair, so he often sat right next to whichever cat was also on the couch. He found some of them to be very agreeable, especially when they snuggled closer to him, purrs radiating warmth into his body. Mrs. Figg brought out the tea set, and while it was always the same tea set, it was never the same tea; she had a knack for different brews. They watched the damp air drip down the window, and leaned back against the soft, enveloping couch cushions. Floorboards creaked for no reason at all, and sometimes Harry would find a dead mouse on the welcome mat. Sometimes Harry helped water the shriveled plants sitting on various shelves and window sills, or help wash the mountain of dishes Mrs. Figg forgot about. She always kept the photos polished, and the scrapbooks in order.

Harry wouldn’t admit it, but he liked the house.

            Mrs. Figg often showed Harry the enormous scrapbooks she maintained of all of her cats, telling stories about Muffin or Raju or Tibbles in an almost never-ending chatter. Harry fetched tissues when her eyes were runny over runaways, or the particularly favorite deceased. In that respect, visits with Mrs. Figg remained the same as they always had been.  

            Then Harry would ask about what it was like to be a Squib, or to live in Britain as a Sikh, or what going to India was like, and Mrs. Figg became almost a different person. She recited the names of her cats almost obsessively, like it was part of a routine. But her eyes lit up when she talked of how her father had owned a small antiques shop in Diagon Alley, how she grew up speaking Punjabi at home and English in school, and how going to a Gurdwara in London was different than attending one in Punjab. She talked about her first Holi festival, and how it had changed her life.

            “The colors—I can’t even describe—they were so vibrant,” she whispered, childlike wonder in her faraway gaze. “And everyone was laughing, and singing, and dancing quite terribly—children ran in the streets, elders shook their fists in happiness, wizards and Muggles alike rejoiced, and—“ she wiped her eyes—“it was stunning. When you go to India—“

            “I don’t think that’s happening any time soon, Mrs. Figg—“

            “Regardless. When you go to India, make sure you go during Holi, or Diwali, or-- oh, and avoid tourists at all cost.” She winked. “When the time comes, I’ll tell you all the tips and tricks to travel.”

            “Alright then.” Harry laughed lightly at the pointless promise.

(Still. Sometimes, when he dreamed, his vision was filled with exploding colors and happy voices calling his name. On those nights, he would wake up smiling.)

            While Mrs. Figg was often very excited to speak to Harry about Punjab and her family, she became curiously silent on other topics. When Harry asked about why she no longer visited Punjab, Mrs. Figg nearly snapped at him, saying in a shaking voice, “I had to stay behind. You understand? I had no choice. A war was going on, nothing to be done. Besides, Punjab—it—I had—nothing to be done. Nothing, nothing, nothing….” Her hoarse voice ghosted out of her lips and haunted the air.

On the third week of visiting, Harry arrived to see Mrs. Figg reading yellowed letters, eyes damp as her coke-bottle glasses slid down her nose, smile tender and soft, and Harry felt very embarrassed as he saw her knobbly fingers trace over the ink. He was almost grateful when Mrs. Figg noticed him and immediately shoved the letters into a wooden box, eyes wide in panic.

            They made a silent agreement not to discuss it.  

            Harry did not know how to confront these unexpected episodes of silence and grief. So he talked about the cats instead.  

            Mrs. Figg always loved talking about the cats.

            Sometimes, the old woman would ask him question that _he_ did not want to answer. “Do you know what’s happening in the Wizarding World? I can’t get the Prophet, and Dumbledore only sends me the essentials.”

            Harry spilled some tea on his lap. Mrs. Figg scolded him and forgot to ask him again.

            “If you don’t know what’s going on, why don’t you ask your friends about it, hmm?”

            Harry cleaned his glasses and asked about the small tortoiseshell that was curled in his lap.

            “I’m sure your mates have sent you loads of letters, that’s what true friends do. Well? Haven’t they?”

            Harry did not answer.

THREE

            _10 th July, 1995_

_Dear Harry,_

_Hi! I hope you’re having a good summer! ~~Sod those relatives of yours.~~ I’m sure you’re making the best of it._

_Sorry this is getting to you so late, but I’ve finally gotten around to making duplicates of the photos we took right before school ended! It took hours, Dad had to teach me some complicated spellwork to get it exactly right; wizard pictures are a lot harder to copy than I thought. Something to do with the person’s expressions being reversed every time or something. Anyway, here they are. I quite like the one with us laughing, and it’s a bit blurry, and we all look so silly, but that one’s my favorite._

_My summer has had its ups and downs. Mum’s been busy with contracting work, her back is getting sore and she’s been grumpier than usual. But she’s the strongest person I know, she’s arm-wrestled men twice her size and won, so she’ll be ok. Apparently she was quite the partier back in the day, always challenging people to dance battles and whatnot. Dad’s been showing off designs for his next Ministry architecture project, looks impressive, except he loses all his sleep over it. We’re the same, that way._

_Anyway, we’ve been on our trip to visit the cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents in Hangzhou, which was a great time except for all the rain! My damp socks still hasn’t recovered. It’s been nice to speak the dialect again, I’ve missed it._

_I hope this letter cheers you up! There’ll be more on the way!_

_Your friend,_

_Cho Chang_

_P.S.: Have you had the chance to see any Quidditch matches? Tutshill is still going strong._

_P.P.S.: We should have a match, just the three of us sometime. It’ll help us hone our skills, keep us on our toes. We’re all seekers, after all. Only makes sense for us to learn from one another, yeah?_

_P.P.P.S: Now I feel silly, writing all these post-scripts! But really, I hope you’re doing well. Please write back, I’d ~~love~~ like to hear from you. _

_12 th July, 1995_

_Harry:_

_Hello! Summer’s been bloody fantastic so far! We’ve been to the Alps and gone camping and toured some kind of Wizard museum in Wales. The Alps are so huge, and they’re hard to climb, but it was so worth it. I wish you could’ve seen it._

_Cho got us the photos from the hospital. I laughed quite a bit, they’re horrid in a good way._

_Mum and Dad are doing fine. Dad’s still saying that I won the Cup and yours was a “technical victory,” but don’t worry, I correct him. Mum’s gotten some kind of plan to teach me cooking! I shudder to think; the one time I tried to make lamb for her birthday, and I nearly burned down the house. She’s a professional chef and everything, but I haven’t gotten her knack for it. I’m more of a baker. Ah well. Can’t do everything right, can I?_

_I hope your summer is going well._

__ ~~_Also_ ~~

~~_I just wanted to say_ ~~

~~_Anyway_ ~~

~~_Bullocks_ ~~

_Write back soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Cedric_

_14 th July, 1995_

_Dear Harry,_

_Salutations! I hope you’ve gotten the pictures I’ve sent you. Please reply if you haven’t, I’d hate for you not to have gotten them. Things have been good around here. Mum’s been teaching me self-defense “just in case.” She reckons it’s best to be prepared. I’m not as keen as she is about it; she used to bet everyone to fight her and she’d use the money to buy really old books from the local store, until she met Dad—but that’s for another time. I learned how to twist someone’s arm, at least?_

_Mum acts like it’s all fun and games (Dad “referees,” gives bloody ridiculous tips), but I can tell she’s worried. Dad says the Prophet’s all nonsense, but the other day he asked if I wanted to go back to school. I told him, “Of course!” And that was that, I should think._

_How have you been? No need to reply right away, but I would like to know how you’re doing. Mix vinegar in your aunt and uncle and cousin’s tea for me, will you?_

_Not much else to write. Marietta sends me the stories she’s been working on, and Michael’s got his hands on some sort of video game, seems very excited about it._

_P.S. The Prophet says that you’re unhinged, like a bloody squeaky door or something. They had better come up with better material, or I’ll have to convince Mum and Dad not to get such garbage excuse for news._

_P.P.S. It’s raining right now, but only lightly. It sounds like little pebbles tapping against the windows. I’ve always loved drizzles. Mum and Dad would let me splash around in puddles in these enormous yellow boots, and I’d get mud and rain all over me, but I loved it. Do you like rain? What’s rain like in Privet Drive?_

_Write back soon!_

_Your friend,_

_Cho Chang_

_17 th July, 1995_

_Harry:_

_Sorry I haven’t written in a bit, I’ve been busy with babysitting my uncle and aunt’s set of triplets. I suppose I’ve got cousins now, haven’t I? They’re so small, I can hardly believe it._

_The one I like the best is Jessica, she giggles in the most precious way. There’s Gregory, but everyone calls him Marvin for some reason? I think that’s his middle name. Seems daft to me, naming your kid and then calling them something different. And then there’s Lottie, she sleeps a lot and her drool keeps getting on my shoulder because of course I have to hold her._

_Still, the wee ones are good company._

_Also! I haven’t burned the house when Mum taught me how to cook potatoes! I burned my hand a bit, but it’s no trouble really._

_How’ve you been?_

_Sincerely,_

_Cedric_

_20 st July, 1995_

_Dear Harry,_

_Have you gotten the pictures yet? Please let me know as soon as you can. Did I mess them up somehow? Oh no, do you hate them? Please, please let me know if you don’t like them, so I can send essays of apologies. Zhenli can carry all the parchment he wants, he’s a Great Gray anyway._

_Summer’s been quiet around here. The weather’s a bit drab, like my uncle’s coats (always black and gray! Always! The man has no sense of color!), so that’s not been too fun. Even Mum stayed inside today, and we played games like I was a kid again. Dad made some soup, and it was just the right amount of warm. He played silly dress-up games with us too, it was fun and everything, but I just…I can’t help but miss you, is all. You and Cedric and all my other friends._

_P.S. Sorry if this is too personal, but I heard Ron and Hermione mention right before school ended, you know, when you weren’t awake yet, that your birthday is the 31 st of July. Would you like a cake or something? Let me know so we can celebrate with you in spirit, if that’s alright._

_Please write back soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Cho Chang_

_25th July, 1995_

_Harry:_

_You wouldn’t believe the havoc three infants can wreak until you have to change all of their diapers! They’re certainly a handful, but I only have to stop by a few days a week; Aunt Rosa and Uncle Douglas have it much worse than I do._

_Went for a run this morning, to stretch the legs a bit, and I thought of you, and Cho, and everyone else. I got to see Zoe and Bertie and Xavier and Imogen the other day though, that was a good time. We went to so many different shops in London, I can’t keep track of all the trinkets we bought! I think you and Cho would have fit right in._

_Speaking of trinkets! Cho’s sent me a letter about how it’s your birthday coming up, and I was wondering if you’d like any presents? It would be no trouble at all._

_I hope all is well. Write back as soon as you can._

_Sincerely,_

_Cedric_

_31 st of July, 1995_

_Dear Harry,_

_HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! Cedric and I finally had the chance to visit each other this week, and we decided to write you a joint birthday card with our respective presents attached. How does it feel to be fifteen? Do you like the photos I sent a while back? Anyway—I just—I’m sorry—Have a great day. -- Your friend, Cho Chang_

_Happy Birthday, Harry! Cedric here, just wanted to wish you a good day, and I hope you enjoy our presents. From the both of us: Please write back! We’re getting a bit worried about how you’re doing. I hope you’re well. -- Sincerely, Cedric_

_10 th August, 1995_

_Dear Harry,_

_Have we done something wrong? Are you alright? How are you? I’m sorry for sounding so daft, and I’m sorry that I keep asking these questions, but-- but we’re scared, y’know?_

_Did you like your presents?_

_Please._

_Write back._

_-Cho Chang_

_12 th August, 1995_

_Harry:_

_Dunno if you get the Prophet in Privet Drive, but for Merlin’s sake, they’ve outdone themselves. Dumbledore and you, lunatics! What—bloody—nonsense. It’s been the same old trash this whole summer, except now—now it seems worse than ever. Even Dad didn’t like the issue this time around._

_I hope—I hope that you’re alright?_

_Can’t sleep lately. Keep thinking about the maze._

_~~I’m sorry—~~_

~~_I’m confused, I don’t know how to write this—_ ~~

_Be safe. Please, please, be safe._

_Write back._

_Sincerely,_

_Cedric_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW, IT'S FINALLY HERE!!!!! Sorry for the wonky spacing, too lazy to fix it right now. Hope it's not too bad. Anyway, thank you all so much for your patience and understanding, the start of school's been hectic. I should be getting back to a semi-regular posting schedule, but I can't promise anything. Know that I work on getting chapters up as soon as possible, and I will definitely keep working on this fic, even though I might take a break now and then. Thanks again, seriously. You guys make my day.  
> (Side-note: The alternative title for this chapter was, "Harry's Angst is Only Just Beginning.")  
> (Side-note 2: The song "Used to Be," by Beach House fueled this chapter, so if you'd like, give it a listen.)


	10. Collision on the Hogwarts Express, The Boring Stuff, and Pink Nails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for Umbridge in the last bit, so....abuse, torture. Typical canon levels of grossness when it comes to her. If anyone needs anything else mentioned, let me know in the comments or on my tumblr, url is toomanyfeelings5. I've got anon on and I always answer asks privately. Not a problem at all. Hope you guys like this chapter. Thanks so much for your comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. They mean a lot to me. :)

FOUR

            Hermione and Ron headed towards the prefect section of the train, backs disappearing into the crowd of students still trying to find seats.

            Harry knew that they would find him as soon as they could, and that they would sit in their own compartment like always, but that didn’t change the fact that he was sick of feeling left behind. First Dumbledore at the trial, then Sirius at King’s Cross, and now Ron and Hermione.

            Well, Harry thought as he glanced around at other packed compartments, really, he’d been feeling left behind for a very long time.

            He wished that it wouldn’t take such a long time for that sense of loneliness to go away, and he hoped to nobody in particular that by the time Ron and Hermione came back from their prefect meeting, he would be happy to see them.

            He had given up on finding an empty compartment to sit in, and was about to push past Michael Corner to get to another section of the train when someone yelled, “Harry!”

            He turned to see Neville waving enthusiastically at him while clutching some sort of spiky plant, and Harry tried not to sigh as he plodded over to the other boy’s compartment. “’Lo, Neville.”

           “Excuse me, I think you’re forgetting the rest of us.”

            Harry opened the sliding door and looked up to see Ginny smirking at him in a very Fred-and-George kind of way, except she had a certain twinkle in her eye the twins didn’t have. He mustered up a smile back. “Hello, Ginny, and hello, er…?”

            He trailed off as he sat in between Neville and Ginny and stared at the other girl in their compartment, who was next to Ginny. She had long yellow hair that went past her waist, and fingernails painted with little strawberries and stars and frogs. Her pinky croaked. From the girl’s stick-out ears hung enormous radish earrings that looked familiar, somehow.  She gave no response to anyone, and instead turned the page of her upside down newspaper.

           “Harry, hi!”

           Relief broke the awkward silence, and Harry almost shot out of his seat to let Ron and Hermione in the compartment. They smiled at him a little too widely, but that could be forgiven, because Harry was doing the same thing.

           Ron surveyed the compartment like Harry had, fingers tapping against his pants in nervous energy. “Hi, Neville, and Ginny, and—uh-- ?”

         “That’s Looney Lovegood,” Hermione stated matter-of-factly, though Harry couldn’t help but notice that she looked quite uppity about it, nose in the air and everything. “She—“

          “Don’t call her that, Hermione,” Ginny snapped, and her expression was so fierce that it was like looking at a wildfire. Her hand was gripping the wand in her pocket. Even Hermione looked down at her shoes. “Don’t you dare say another word.”

          “It’s alright.” Everyone turned to look at the wispy-haired girl, who slowly lowered the newspaper to reveal a pale, thin face, enormous blue eyes, and a slight smile. She hummed for a moment and looked at them each in the face, unblinking, before finally saying, “My name is Luna Lovegood, pleased to meet you all.”

          Everyone muttered hello back as Ron and Hermione slowly squished themselves in the corner as Neville scooted to make room for them. Ginny looked ready to duel anyone who spoke above a respectful murmur, but then Luna placed a hand on the other girl’s shoulder, and whispered something in her ear, and Ginny took a deep breath and leaned back in her seat, and held Luna’s hand.

          Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared the same puzzled look: _When did Ginny hold hands with anyone without blushing? Who was this strange girl?_ But their pondering was interrupted when Neville thrust his large, bristling plant in front of him, almost bursting with excitement. Harry had never seen him look so unabashedly enthusiastic before, and felt a pang of jealousy, that Neville could enjoy something as simple as plant while he, Harry, got upset over prefect badges. It was good for Neville to be happy, he repeated to himself. It was good. His scar prickled, and he tried to stop himself from cursing as Neville prattled on about his plant. “Gran said she’s never been prouder of my marks in Herbology and all that. It’s called _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ , and it’s one of the rarest species of magical plant there is.” They all stared at the noxiously green cactus, which pulsated like an infected wound. Neville beamed, oblivious to Hermione’s frown, Ron pinching his nose, and Ginny and Luna raising their eyebrows. Harry, for his part, tried to slide away from the plant as much as possible, except the compartment was so packed that no matter what, he was right next to Neville and the cactus.

          The other boy continued, holding the cactus carefully as it swayed this way and that. “Professor Sprout’s going to be thrilled when she sees this, I know it. My great-aunt Aggie’s the one who gave it to me, found it in some kind of market in Assyria. Said it’d be safe to breed it.”

          The plant twitched as Neville’s hand accidentally brushed one of its spines.

          “Er,” Harry interjected, “Wouldn’t it be—safer—to put that thing with the rest of the luggage?”

           Neville shook his head, short dreadlocks bouncing along in sync. “No no, I gotta show you guys its defense mechanism, it’s really fascinating—“

           He poked one of the quivering spines with his wand, and there was a moment when the plant went completely still. No one breathed. Then—

           A stinking, steaming mucus sprayed onto Harry’s arms, chest, and face. It was in his nose, his hair, his mouth—he gagged—

           “I—I’m so sorry, I never thought it would do that, I’m—it’s not poisonous, at least—“

          “Ugh, it’s _sticky_ —but no, Neville, it’s fine—“

          “Yeah, Neville, it’s ok, we’ll just clean this bloody stuff up in a mo—“

          “What spell works to get this off….let me think….”

          “It’s the Crumple-Horned Snorlack, it must be addling up the plant’s brains—“

          “ _Harry_?”

           Everyone stopped moving as the compartment door slid open. Harry’s fingers were shaking as he wiped his glasses, mouth burning as he spat out the cactus slime as fast as he could, because he _knew_ that voice—

           Through his smudged lenses, Harry saw Cho Chang standing outside of their compartment. Her hair was in a messy bun. She looked like she was trying not to cry. “Harry?” she asked again, voice hoarse and too raw to be casual.

            Everyone else was either looking at him or at Cho as Ginny and Hermione magicked the muck away with a few whispered spells. Harry looked down at his shoes, face burning. He could only imagine the headlines: The Boy Who Lived Reunited with One of His Soulmates While Battling a Cantankerous Cactus. “’M alright.”

            Cho nodded and bit her lip, still staring at him so strangely, like she was looking at a ghost. _What does she care?_ Harry thought furiously as his scar kept stinging. She hadn’t sent him any letters over the holidays, after all.

            “I—I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

            Harry heard the compartment door slide shut, and a choked sob seconds later.

            “What was that all about?” Ginny asked, not bothering to sound guilty.

            “Dunno,” Harry shrugged as he cleaned his glasses. “We don’t know each other that well or anything.”

            Ginny frowned, and Luna said, “It doesn’t seem that way to me,” but no one else asked about it.

            Harry breathed a sigh of relief and definitely did not think about Cho’s tears for the rest of the train ride.

FIVE

            Dolores Umbridge was at Hogwarts.

            Was the Ministry really infiltrating Hogwarts? Was Hermione right? She usually was, but—

            Harry sighed. It didn’t seem like his trial was going to end any time soon.

            He was so distracted by the toad-grin and “progress for the sake of progress must be discouraged,” that he hadn’t even noticed that he was wandering away from Ron and Hermione, who were arguing about SPEW as they headed to the common room.

            He stopped his aimless feet, and was about to head over to them when—

            “Harry!”

            He spun around. Cho was nearly tripping over herself trying to get to him, eyes wide. Harry felt his stomach lurch. He raised a hand in a limp sort of greeting.

            When she was a little nearer towards him, she mouthed, “ _Can we talk_?” and jerked her head towards a side exit out of the Great Hall.

            Thanks to Cho, Harry had improved on his lip-reading skills, so he nodded and trudged through the throng of students to the side exit. Nerves and anger and something else prickled in his chest. There weren’t any roses to accompany this feeling.

            They ended up hiding behind a large, decorative plant in the hallway that had large orange flowers nestled in thick purple leaves. The petals sent of sparks. No one remembered it being there the year before, but perhaps the Interior Decorating Club had gotten creative over the summer. He’d ask Dean about it later; he made flyers for the club.

            Most of the other students had either directed the tiny First-Years to their common rooms or desperately tailed after the prefects or sauntered off to bed in typical older-student fashion, so Cho and Harry were quite alone, except for the odd plant that concealed them from any curious onlooker. She smoothed her robes, adjusted her crooked Ravenclaw tie, and said in a strained voice, “How—are you--?” She paused ad squeezed her eyes shut. She took a deep breath, and blinked at him like she was still surprised he was here. “I’m glad you got that plant stuff off you.”

            Harry nodded, loosening a quick laugh from his lungs. “Ha. Yeah, me too.”

            Cho smiled tightly. “I just wanted to say that….um….Cedric and I…..oh, bugger. Did you—did you like the pictures I sent you?”

            Harry frowned, tasting bitterness on his tongue. “Er…..I never got them. Sort of thought—sort of thought you’d never sent them.”

            Cho went completely still, realization dawning on her face. Summer freckles sprinkled her nose. Was she taller than before? Then: “Harry James Potter, _of course I sent you the pictures_!”

            Harry’s irritation grew as the plant jolted them both with residual sparks. “Well, I never got them, did I? What was I supposed to think, I didn’t get any letters from you or Cedric over the summer—“

            “ _What_?”

            Harry had never seen Cho look so angry, fists shaking, eyes burning through him. Her voice was shrill and thick. “Harry, we sent you plenty of letters! We kept saying, ‘Take your time, no worries,’ but you never replied, and I—Cedric and I were worried, because we never heard any answers, and I didn’t know if you hated the stupid hospital pictures or not, and Marietta said to ignore you, but how could I do that? You’re my friend, and you were with those relatives, and we didn’t know if you were even _alive_ —“

            Harry threw up his hands. “I’m fine! I’m right here! I was stuck in that house all damn summer, and I never got any letters from either you, and I kept waiting and waiting for _something_ , and it’s not like the Dursleys get the _Prophet_ , I had no idea—I—I didn’t know!”

            Cho took a deep breath and wiped her eyes and glared at the floor. “Alright. Alright then. Why didn’t you get our letters then?”

            “Hell if I know—wait. I think….I’ll have to ask Sirius about it.”

            “What does he have to do with this, why-- ?”

            Harry rubbed his forehead. “I’ll tell you later, yeah? I’ll ask him, he won’t lie to me.”

            Cho’s gaze bore into his. “Get back to me on it as soon as you can.”

            Harry nodded stiffly. “Yeah, I will.”

            “It’s—we got you birthday gifts and everything.”

            “Oh.” Harry swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. The Dursleys had given him Vernon’s ancient running shoes. Mrs. Figg had handed him a tin of dried apricots and pecans. “Thanks.”

            “Did you really think we wouldn’t send you anything?”

            Harry shrugged and looked at his shoes. “Dunno.”

            Cho stepped closer, smile small and sad. “Harry, I keep my promises. I wrote you, Cedric wrote you, we—we wanted to keep in touch.”

            “I—yeah.” Harry glanced up. “You didn’t miss much, my summer wasn’t that interesting or anything.”

            Cho laughed. Harry had forgotten how nice it sounded in person. “Mine wasn’t either, trust me. But I still wrote you, and I still want to hear about yours. Ok?”

            “…Ok.”

            Cho held out her hand. Her thumb had a strawberry painted on it, like Luna. “I’m sorry you never got the letters. I hope you get to read them soon. Friends?”

            Harry stared at her hand, and slowly reached for it. He hadn’t held her hand in months. He’d missed it more than he thought he would. “Friends.”

            Cho let out a breath, and let go after a few extra seconds. Harry felt his heart skip a beat. “Cedric’s Head Boy, he’s been swamped already with everything, but we should have a catch-up chat sometime soon, yeah? You can tell us all the boring details, because it won’t be boring for us, trust me.”

            Harry’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Thanks.”

            Cho smiled back, and stepped out from behind the plant. She tossed her hair over her shoulder as they parted ways. “I’ll see you soon. I solemnly swear it.”

            Harry waved as she started walking away. “Me too.”

            That night, after him and Seamus got into a shouting match about the bloody _Prophet_ , his throat was sore, and his hands itched to rip his parchment to shreds. When his breathing was even, and his eyes drifted shut, what he dreamed about was Mrs. Figg, waiting to give him a hug and her address at the end of his trial, and Cho, with an armful of letters and presents and promises.

            The graveyard only showed up once.

SIX

            “I appreciate your forthrightness, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge simpered as she pointed to the chair Harry was to sit in, “But I simply cannot allow you to attend a Quidditch game—“

            “Tryouts—“

            “—When you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

            Harry sat in the hard wooden chair across from the Professor’s large mahogany desk. If he wanted, he could look out the window, see how the Quidditch try-outs were going—

            One of the cats in the pictures shrieked, and he looked at the cramped desk in front of him instead. Unlike everything else in the room, the desk had grooves and marks on it, almost like something had clawed at the wood. As Umbridge was fetching herself tea, Harry stared at all of the cats in all of their portraits. They were everywhere, clawing and hissing and mewling at him as they hung on the bright pink walls. This, he decided, was not like Mrs. Figg’s house. He squinted as Umbridge sat down and demurely sipped tea from a perfectly porcelain cup. No, not like Mrs. Figg at all. “Do you—er—own a cat?”

            His Professor gently placed her teacup down. Her eyes were pale and pinched in mirth. Her laugh was soft and girlish. “Heavens no; I adore them in their little picture frames, but one can only imagine the fur and the upkeep, and, well. Some creatures aren’t worth the attention, don’t you think?”

            Harry clenched his jaw and resolved to write to Mrs. Figg about this woman immediately.

            Umbridge’s smile widened slightly. “I’m glad we agree on something, Mr. Potter.” She poured another spoonful of sugar into her tea and took another delicate sip. A large clock shaped like a Persian meowed and announced the half-hour mark. Umbridge set the cup down slower this time, wide hands curling around the handle tighter than before. She cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with a light pink napkin. Harry longed for Quidditch. It took everything he had not to look out the window. “Now then. To business.”

            “Yes, Professor.”

            Umbridge raised her thin eyebrows. “Do not take that tone with me, Mr. Potter.” A different, horribly sweet smile stretched across her face. “We really must teach you to control your temper, don’t we?”

            Before Harry could say anything, she had risen from her plush magenta chair, and placed a curious-looking quill on his desk. The feathers were dark and spotted with red.

            Harry let out a tiny sigh; he could do lines, those weren’t so bad. Maybe he could even finish his homework before midnight. He could sleep for the first time in weeks.

            Umbridge’s smile showed all of her teeth as she placed a long roll of parchment in front of him. It trailed off the desk. “I want you to write, ‘I must not tell lies.’ Can you do that for me?”

            Harry met her gaze without blinking. “Yes.”

            The Professor nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Begin immediately.”

            Harry glanced at the quill, then the parchment, then the desk. “Professor,” he said in the voice he used at Durlsey dinners, “you haven’t given me any ink, or how many lines to write.”

            “Dear me, you really must watch that tone of yours, or I’ll just have to give you another detention. Mr. Potter, you won’t be needing any ink. You’ll stop writing when I say you will. Understand?”

            Harry hated how she treated him like a child who didn’t know any better. “I understand.”

            “Excellent. Begin.”

            She walked back to her desk, and took out a feathery flamingo quill and a stack of papers.

            Harry put the quill to parchment, and began to write.

            _I must not tell lies._

His hand stung slightly. Harry ignored it; must’ve been from that late-night History of Magic essay.

            _I must not tell lies._

            The pain increased. Harry hoped that Ron was doing well at his Keeper try-outs.

            _I must not tell lies._

            His writing on the parchment was red.

            _I must not tell lies._

            His hand burned, like he had hit it against a hot stove.

            _I must not tell lies._

            A small, searing cut appeared on his hand. Harry grit his teeth.

            _I must not tell lies._

            The cut deepened and grew wider, forming one straight line across his hand. Harry refused to stop. He’d dealt with worse, he’d outlived Voldemort all these years—

            _I must not tell lies._

The writing was no longer on the parchment, but carving into his hand. Harry remained silent as Umbridge slowly rose from her desk, shuffling papers as she strode towards him. He loosened his shoulders and kept his hands from shaking. Already, the cuts were closing up.

            She tutted. “That will have to do for now. We’ll have plenty more times to give the message a chance to sink in, won’t we?”

            Harry fought the horror shivering down his spine. He kept his voice even. “Yes, Professor.”

            Umbridge smiled her gaping, toad-like grin, the one she reserved for moments like this. “Good.” She leaned over the bloody parchment, examining it closely. Then she gave one final perusal of the writing on his skin, gaze boring into his aching hand.

            She squinted slightly. Harry sat resolutely in his chair. If she wanted him to stay, he would stay, he would beat her at this twisted game—

            She grabbed his wrist.

            Harry’s vision blurred.

            Her nails dug into his wrist, and it felt like—

            It felt like everything was burning, itching, clawing, screaming, _make it stop_ —

            “Oh, no,” Umbridge beamed, inspecting the underside of his wrist with barely-concealed glee, “I’m not going to stop.”

            Harry shut his mouth and did not stop the angry tears from falling. He couldn’t control the shaking, but he forced his eyes open, and looked right at her.

            Her nails pressed into the name on his wrist.

            Harry didn’t know when she let go, but when she did, Harry rose from his seat in a surprisingly fluid motion. “Goodbye, Professor.”

            Professor Umbridge waved a hand, eyes glittering. “I look forward to our next meeting, Mr. Potter. Remember: You must not tell lies.”

            Harry slammed the door behind him.

            Mouth dry, hand stinging, everything aching, shaking, couldn’t see straight—

            Harry hobbled to the nearest bathroom and threw up in the sink.

            He washed his mouth and dried his hands, careful to wrap some spare toilet paper around the wounds.

            No one was going to see how weak he was.

            After a long moment, he had recovered enough to walk down the stairs without trembling,

            Harry grasped the railing for support and almost didn’t notice someone say his name.      

            He glanced up, and felt bile rise in his throat.

            Of course it was Cho.

            “Hi, Harry. Are—are you alright?”

            Harry swallowed and tried to smile. His mouth was dry and tasted like soap from the sink. “Yeah, just fine.”

            Cho frowned. “You look like you’ve been ill. D’you need anything? I’ve got some nice tea—“

            Harry shook his head and winced. “I’ll be alright. But listen—“

            “Yes?”

            Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He would have to tell her at some point anyway. “I just had detention with Umbridge.”

            “What did she do?”

            Her voice was quiet, like she was ready to wait, and listen.

            No one else was on the staircase.

            He trusted her. She needed to know. He didn’t have to tell her everything. Not yet.

            She wrote him letters and gave him birthday gifts and had a nice laugh and knew Quidditch and loved old words and romance novels and all sorts of shopping trips and-- he trusted her. This was….Harry took a deep breath. This was a new and fragile feeling. He hoped she was gentle, and that she understood.

            Harry opened his eyes and held out his wrist, raw and exposed and blinking away Voldemort from behind his eyelids. “She knows. She knows we’re soulmates.”  


	11. A Torn Sleeve, An Oath in the Owlery, and Draco Malfoy, Private Eye: Part 1

SEVEN

            Harry’s hands were trembling. He squinted at a small, raggedy tear in his robes’ sleeve right where Umbridge’s nails had been. The threads of the torn fabric skittered feather-light across his arm; Harry found that he couldn’t stop shaking. He could fix it—First-Years had no trouble repairing robes—the spell was so simple, why couldn’t he remember?—think—have to ask Hermione or Ron about it—it was simple, really, just a tear—it was dinner time, why wasn’t he hungry?—his throat stung, his stomach felt hollowed out—he glared at the hole on his sleeve—he could fix it—

            Cedric’s hand rested lightly on his back, and it should’ve felt invasive, but it didn’t. Harry almost hated himself for how his breathing slowed, how quickly his body responded. He needed to be still, entirely, completely still. That’s how he’d beat her, that’s how they’d get Umbridge in the end—

            “Hey,” Cho whispered, and she’d stopped pacing across the empty classroom’s floor, crouching in front of him, careful not to get too close. Harry heard her take a deep breath, like she couldn’t be calm either, and it gives him a scrap of comfort, to know that he wasn’t the only one. “D’you want some tea? D’you want us to fetch Ron and Hermione?”

            Harry blinked and gritted his teeth, swallowing nothing. “’M fine, promise. Just—hang on a bit.”

            It was sort of like being back in his cupboard under the stairs; when he was little, he would curl in on himself and let the seconds tick by until they didn’t matter anymore. He would be very careful not to look at the spiders or touch the spots of mold. He had been alone, and small, and angry, and he had managed to go about his days just fine. Harry focused on that feeling until he allowed himself to feel Cedric’s steady hand, and hear Cho’s even breathing, and after a long moment, he felt safe.

            “So,” Harry croaked, slowly sitting up and crossing his legs, hands resting on his knees, “I had detention with Umbridge, and now she knows about Cho. But she doesn’t know about Cedric, I’m sure of it. I had been—well, writing lines for her, and I’m left-handed, and Cho’s name is on that wrist, and that was the only one she’d looked at.”

            “Right,” Cho said, voice cracking slightly as she kept fiddling with a purple clip in her hair. She sat in front of him, but she couldn’t be still, either. “So—so let’s think about what this means, exactly.”

            Cedric removed his hand from between Harry’s shoulder blades, and Harry tried his best not to feel the cold seep back into his skin. The new Head Boy stood up and sat at a rickety old desk, tapping his finger against his chin in thought. Harry noticed how the color had drained from his face; perhaps he was worried, too. “Well,” Cedric finally coughed out, “The first thing we need to consider is how to get Umbridge out of Hogwarts, out of the Ministry, and out of England, because what she’s done is not only blatantly illegal, but completely and utterly depraved. How _dare_ she even attempt such a thing—!“

            “Obviously,” Cho interrupted, ignoring Cedric’s glare, “what Umbridge did was wrong, and under ordinary circumstances she would’ve been punished instantly. There are binding magical contracts, loads of employment application paperwork, and countless laws in place to make sure an individual’s soulmate is not disclosed to anyone without their consent. Hermione probably knows all about those.” Cho smiled bitterly, and she stopped fixing her hair clip. “But since Umbridge is basically the Ministry’s plant here at Hogwarts, I doubt they’d want to replace her, or reprimand her in any way, given how eager they are to promote Umbridge and her shite ideas in _The Prophet._ ”

            “Right,” Harry nodded, and felt grateful that his head didn’t ache quite as much anymore. “Yeah, Fudge isn’t keen on criticism at the moment, he won’t do anything about this.”

            Cedric frowned. “Maybe we could report it to Dumbledore, and he could do something-- ?”         

            “No,” Harry said firmly, “No, we aren’t doing that. Dumbledore’s got more important things to worry about. And besides, he can’t go against the entire Ministry just for one student over one professor.” He remembered the cool, silent dismissal in Dumbledore’s eyes as he had left Harry’s trial. He had brushed right past Mrs. Figg without so much as a wave or a backwards glance. She had been the one to wait for him, in the end. No, Harry thought. Dumbledore wasn’t going to help them. Not this time.

            Cedric sighed, running a hand through his hair, and—wait a minute—“Is your hair longer?”

            The older boy glanced up from his shoes, surprised, before saying, “Oh, yeah, just—just thought I’d grow it out a bit, to see how, you know, to see how it looked. Is it—well—what I mean to say—“

            “Cedric, it’s lovely,” Cho said, and this time her smile wasn’t bitter at all. “It suits you.”

            “Yeah,” Harry chimed in, because it seemed as though Cedric needed reassurance about the thick, wavy hair that reached just past his neck, Merlin knows why. “It looks nice.”

            “Right,” Cedric nodded, hair bouncing in smooth waves, “Yeah. Thanks.” He looked at Cho and added, “Your haircut looks very nice, also.”

            Cho turned slightly pink before shaking her head and saying, “Alright, that’s all well and good, but there’s Umbridge to think about. Should _I_ do anything about this? She does know about my name and Harry and everything, maybe—“ she bit her lip, frown deepening, voice squeaking—“maybe I’ll get detentions with her now, maybe she told the Ministry, maybe Fudge knows about this, maybe he’ll leak it into _The Prophet_ and then _everyone_ will know—“

            Harry looked at the tear in his sleeve and grimaced as he remembered nails clawing into him, and how Professor Umbridge’s eyes had bulged as she hadn’t stopped staring at Cho’s name. Harry took a deep breath, leaned forward, and made sure to look Cho in the face. Her hands yanked at her shorter tufts of hair, and she curled in on herself, too. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and a few panicked tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “Hey,” he whispered, while Cedric plodded over to them and put a hand on her shoulder. “D’you—“ a smile twitched across his face—“Do _you_ want some tea?”

            Cho hiccupped a laugh and leaned into Cedric’s hand for support. “Thanks, but I’ll make some later.” Harry ignored the twinge of jealousy as she dried her eyes. She always seemed to wipe her tears away so quickly, like it was just a perfunctory part of her day.

            Cedric dug a tissue out of his robe pocket and handed it to Cho, who nearly crushed it in her grip. His voice was low and warm as he bent down and murmured, “We’ll work it out. We’ll be ok. They won’t leak it to _The Prophet_ , even they know that’s crossing a line. If anyone hurts either of you again, I’ll—“ Cedric righted himself and breathed in through his nose, hands in fists at his side. Shoulders squared, eyes burning, Cedric looked as though he was going to command an army. “Even if she does tell Fudge about this, or if she finds out about me along with you and Harry, we’ll still get through this, we’ll still fight her—“

            Fear spiked through Harry’s chest like a needle, and it only grew worse the longer Cedric looked the part of a knight in shining armor while Cho gazed at him with so much hope it hurt. “Don’t—don’t get in trouble because of me,” he snapped, voice sharp and too loud for the empty room. “Don’t—this isn’t a crusade, this is—you’re in danger, both of you are, so please stop acting like we can actually do anything about this, yeah? Lay low, don’t draw attention, don’t let anyone know—don’t get yourselves in trouble because of one detention session.”

            Cho snorted, voice rough. “Harry, we’re already in trouble.”

            “Yes, but—but you shouldn’t have to be! This isn’t right, none of this is right, but that doesn’t mean we can do anything about it! Just—This is my fault, this is my problem—I got you into this in the first place, so I’m the one who has deal with it. Not you two.”

            Abruptly, Harry stood up, about to march off to fume in peace, when Cedric said, “None of this is your fault.”

            Harry spun around and nearly grabbed his wand. Anger seized him, fuelled him, gave him a reason for his hands to shake. “Tell that to Umbridge. Tell that to Fudge.”

            “Harry—“

            “Thanks for this, but I have to go. Ron and Hermione will want to know where I’ve been. I’m sure your mates are worried too.”

            “Harry, your sleeve’s torn.”

            Harry’s hand froze on the door handle. He still couldn’t stop shaking. He had to be still, completely and utterly still, and he couldn’t do that, couldn’t even handle one measly detention—just some lines and cuts and a name, that’s all it had been, and he had lost already, and she hadn’t stopped holding his wrist, hadn’t stopped looking at the name—

            Cho’s hand covered his, and together they let go of the doorknob. Harry’s breathing was fast and ragged, like a punctured balloon. Cho didn’t let go of his hand. “Do you want me to fix it?”

            Harry nodded once, and shoved his wand back into his pocket reluctantly.

            She muttered a spell, and the small hole in his sleeve was repaired instantly. “There,” she whispered, voice still hoarse from crying. “Good as new.”

            Cedric reached for Harry’s other hand. “It’s not your fault.”

            Harry took a deep breath, clearing his head of the endless corridors and green lights from his dreams. “I know.”

            “Good.”

            Cho said fiercely, “We’re in this together. That’s that.”

            Harry concentrated on their hands in his; Cedric’s was large and warm, and Cho’s long fingers gripped his until it hurt. “Be careful.”

            Cedric laughed. “I could say the same for you.”

            They walked out of the classroom together, shoulders brushing, and Harry’s breathing slowed.

            “Sometime soon,” Cho said as they rounded a deserted corner, “We’re going to have a nice long catch-up about the summer, and we can bring our other friends, and no one is going to stop us.”

            After a while, they parted ways.

            Cedric’s shoulders were still tensed, and Cho kept glancing around to make sure no one saw them. By the time Harry trudged into the Gryffindor Common Room, he had almost forgotten that none of them had said goodbye. Still, as Ron and Hermione looked at him with worried eyes, it was nice to know how their hands fit in his.

EIGHT

            Hermione said that while it was unlikely that Fudge would know about Cho (“He’s the Minister of Magic, surely he doesn’t need to know about one name, and besides, he’s too busy pretending V-Voldemort doesn’t exist,”), Harry should still be very careful about talking to either of his soulmates until they knew for sure, or at least as long as Umbridge prowled the halls. Ron argued that even if Fudge and other ministry officials knew, Harry should be able to do what he wants, considering that, “everyone thinks you’re batty already, so there’s no reason for you to hide; if you hang around Cho or Cedric or whatever, people will think some bollocks and get on with their bloody stupid lives.”

            Harry found that it was very difficult to follow both sets of advice at once.

            Hermione and Ron were also quite concerned about the cuts on the back of his hand; after another detention with Umbridge, it had taken longer for _I must not tell lies_ to fade away. Harry had another detention slotted with her the following Monday due to “multiple inflammatory remarks during class,” and probably more after that; Harry felt a twinge of guilt for not listening to McGonagall’s advice, and even worse, it was likely that the words would never fade completely. He convinced himself that he was getting used to it, and mostly he was just relieved that she hadn’t bothered checking either of his wrists again.

            He dreamed of nails scraping against chalkboard, a maze of corridors and passageways leading nowhere, the graveyard, and hundreds upon hundreds of cats looking out at him from countless cracked mirrors.

            Harry felt like there were eyes everywhere, all looking at him, all trying to catch a glimpse of the names on his wrists. He almost snapped at Seamus for walking too close, and nearly shoved Neville away when all he wanted to do was ask what the homework for Potions was.

            Thankfully, the weekend arrived sooner rather than later, and surely all students became rested and rejuvenated on those precious days, no matter the week’s upsets and unpleasantness. Harry, despite being exceptional in many ways, was not an exception to the rule; on Friday, he wrote carefully-worded letters to both Sirius and Mrs. Figg, and was ready to deliver them on Saturday morning, feeling quite refreshed after getting some of his thoughts out on paper. Birds called to each other in the distance, chirps muffled by the stone walls of the dormitory. A faint light illuminated everyone else’s sleeping figures. A piece of pale blue sky glowed softly through a small, smudged window. Harry wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and shivered slightly. He sat on his bed and glanced over the two letters to make sure he hadn’t given anything away, just in case anyone intercepted them. Sirius’s letter was extra discreet, containing phrases such as: _If you could look for some notes meant for me from over the summer, that would be nice_ , and, _I hope that you’re doing well, Padfoot._ He skimmed Mrs. Figg’s letter worriedly, hoping he hadn’t revealed anything worth reporting:

_Dear Mrs. Figg,_

_It’s getting colder already, and it isn’t even October. You had asked me to put your arthritis cream in the bathroom cabinet, but I think I put it in the spice drawer by accident; Buji kept knocking the ladles over, so I stopped to pick them up, and I put the arthritis cream in a spot the cat couldn’t get to. Sorry. Your joints should be alright now, right?_

_There’s a new professor at school, and she thinks cats aren’t worth taking care of. Also….I know you like your letters a lot, so I thought we could write, or start a correspondence, ~~or whatever it’s called~~. Thanks for being there, you know, when Dumbledore called you in. It helped a lot. _

_I hope everything’s going well in the neighborhood. If anyone bothers you, let me know._

_From,_

_Harry_

_P.S.: How are house elves treated in India? Are there even house elves in India? My friend would like to know more about international house elf rights for a club. Thanks._

           The sun was just starting to rise over the clouds, pink light spilling over the castle. Ron snored loudly and Hermione was surely still asleep, so Harry climbed the steep, uneven stairs to the Owlery by himself. When he was almost there, Harry stopped for a moment to glance out a wind-chilled windowpane. The Quidditch pitch looked small from up here, and if he squinted he could spot bits of leaves littering the field. The Gryffindor team’s first practice was today, and Harry couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face; Angelina might be grouchy about all of his detentions, but at least Ron was going to be a Keeper this season, and he could be a Seeker again. Standing here, looking down at the pitch, it was almost like he was on his broom already, soaring high above everything in the world.

            Sirius’s letter nearly slipped out of his grip; he was back on the ground again, clutching the letters tightly in his hands. He just opened the rusted door to the Owlery when—

            “Oh!”

            Harry almost dropped his letters again, and Cho stopped herself from falling into owl droppings just in time. She looked frantic for a moment, trying to regain her balance, before recovering and saying cheerfully, “Good morning, Harry!”

            Harry blinked and felt his face heat up, because Cho’s arms looked particularly toned as she gripped an owl cage for support while she blew a stray hair out of her face. “Morning.”

            Cho smiled to herself as she adjusted her footing. “I promise I’m training for Quidditch,” she joked, attempting a clumsy wink. “You surprised me, is all. Didn’t expect anyone to come up here at this hour.”

            Harry let his shoulders relax. “Yeah, I didn’t— for a second I thought you might be Umbridge or Snape or something.”

            “Me too.”

            Harry tried to wink back, though it felt more like blinking forcefully. “Good thing we found each other instead.”

            Cho leaned against a crate of owl feed and raised an eyebrow, smirking. “It won’t be so good when we’re in a Quidditch match, trust me. What mail are you _seeking to deliver_ this fine morning?”

            Harry snorted, then chuckled, then laughed so hard his shoulders shook. Once he had recovered, he found that Cho’s face was still red, even after her near-slip. Was she embarrassed? No, that couldn’t be it, she looked relaxed enough. He shook his head; Cho was smiling at him, and they both had pink in their cheeks. This was the best start to a weekend he’d had in a long time. “I’m delivering letters to S—my godfather, and my neighbor. Don’t worry,” he added as Cho was about to interrupt, “I asked him about the letters. If I’m right, then they should be with him.”

            “But why?”

            “I’ll tell you later, it’s too important to talk about here—“

            “What’s too important, eh, Potter?”

            Harry and Cho jumped as Mr. Filch banged into the Owlery, bushy eyebrows almost obscuring the squinted glare sent in Harry’s general direction; owls had started hooting indignantly at all of the commotion, and the old man scowled at them just as much as he did at Harry. “Well? Do you have something to share with us, Potter?”

            Harry bit back a retort. “No, Mr. Filch, I’m here to deliver letters—“

            “Aha! Letters with Dungbombs, you mean!”

            Filch lurched forward and, with surprising tenacity and speed, ripped the letters from Harry’s hands. He waved them suspiciously in the air, even sniffing them, before growling, “Well? Are there Dungbombs or Puking Pustilles or whatever that rubbish is called? Those Weasel twins are getting more and more brats involved in their schemes, and you’re a brat, aren’t you?”

            Harry glanced frantically at the letters which were crumpling in Filch’s grip, and let irritation leak out of his voice when he replied, “No, there’s nothing in the letters but ink. Sir.”

            “I don’t believe a word, ya hear-- ?”

            “Oh, give it a rest!”

            Filch glowered as Cho marched towards him, and they would have gone toe-to-toe if Filch wasn’t already shuffling away. Harry realized that Cho towered over the stooped old man; had she always been this tall? “Harry said he doesn’t have anything in those letters, you checked them yourself, so you can go right on your way, _sir_.”

            Filch opened his mouth to retort before Cho pointed at Harry commandingly. “Give those letters back to Harry. He’s done nothing wrong, so stop this argol-bargol and go back to being spiteful somewhere else.”

            With the utmost contempt he could convey in a single gesture, Filch slowly handed the letters back to Harry before muttering, “I’ll be tellin’ her about this, yes I will, she’ll know and they’ll be punished, oh yes,” and stalking off, leaving the door open behind him.

            Cho smoothed her hair while Harry cracked a smile and asked, “Argol bargol?”

            The girl giggled, no longer so intimidating. “It’s a silly phrase I found, I don’t know what came over me. It comes from Victorian England, and it means you’re having an argument.”

            “Well, thanks for interrupting the, er, argol-bargol. I can handle Filch, but…thanks.”

            Cho grinned, dazzling the entire room. Even the most cantankerous owl quieted for a moment. “You’re welcome, Harry.”

            Harry found a plain-looking spotted owl to deliver the letters for him while Cho stroked the top of her Great Gray owl’s head soothingly before attaching a purple, sparkly envelope to his leg. Zhenli gave one boastful hoot as he ruffled his feathers, pleased. Cho chattered on about how she was writing to her parents about needing a care package for, “strictly school reasons, I promise I haven’t told them anything about—you know,” and how Marietta and Michael and Anthony and Padma and all of her other friends had told her to steer clear of Umbridge as best she could.

            “They said,” Cho said, voice quieted, “that they would all write one long essay to Dumbledore and Umbridge and Flitwick explaining why that—that _hag_ isn’t a proper educator. They would cite sources and everything. We’re all such Ravenclaws, it’s a bit ridiculous. I’d better help them, I suppose, though of course I won’t sign my name to it.”

            Harry nodded, smiling softly. “Ron and Hermione threatened to get McGonagall on the job, but we think she’ll do her part her own way. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

            Cho glanced at him hesitantly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, we’ll see each other, won’t we? Sod Umbridge.”

            Harry nodded gravely. “Sod Umbridge.”

NINE

            “Did you see him dive _away_ from the Quaffle? I’ve never seen a Keeper so pathetic, have you, Crabbe?”

            “No.”

            “Have you, Goyle?”

            “No.”

            Draco’s eyes glittered wickedly from the stands. “I must say that I agree. Weasel’s going to ruin Gryffindor single-handedly, not that that’s any surprise.” He smirked as Ronald Weasely fumbled with another save while the crowd of Slytherins chanted, “ _Gryffindors are losers, Gryffindors are losers—“_

“Excuse me.”

            The jeers, snickers, and taunts quieted. Cedric Diggory, Head Boy of Hogwarts, was climbing the stands slowly and deliberately towards them. “I was out for a stroll, wanted to catch a glimpse of the pitch before our first practice, and here I find you all.” His eyes swept over the crowd coolly, like an autumn wind. “I hope you know that Slytherin House values ambition, cunning, resourcefulness, and teamwork. It does not value petty name-calling or spineless insults.”

            Draco glared at the older boy and resolved to write to his father about him immediately; such fools should not be allowed to represent the prestige and glory of Hogwarts. Theodore Nott seemed utterly indifferent to Diggory’s presence, though his fists were clenched. Pany Parkinson looked as though someone had insulted her entire bloodline while Goyle and Crabbe rose out of their seats, as if prepared to chase Diggory out of the stands. Draco made sure to look up and meet the Hufflepuff’s gaze; he wasn’t intimidated by anybody, certainly not a member of the weakest House in Hogwarts. “I hope you know that no one tells Slytherin what to do, or you’ll find that badge getting pinned to a more worthy chest.”

            Diggory raised an eyebrow, a smirk twitching across his own face. “I can guarantee that sitting here calling another Quidditch team names is never going to win you a match. What would make Salazar prouder: you all calling Gryffindor losers or you winning the championship?”

            Silent disdain greeted the Head Boy’s question. “I thought so. Now, if you would be so kind and exit the stadium, I would appreciate it. I need to inspect the grounds anyway, apparently there’s an infestation of beetles right underneath the stands.”

            Slowly, reluctantly, Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, and all of the other Slytherins climbed off of the bleachers and marched away from the pitch, heads held high. No one told Slytherin House what to do or how to act and got away with it.

            Draco looked back as Weasel threw the Quaffle to no one. “ _Gryffindors are losers!”_

He saw Potter dive for the Snitch and yelled, “Oi! Does your scar make you cry, Potter? Feeling a bit sensitive, Potter? Wet the bed, Potter? Feeling a bit deranged, Potter-- ?”

            “Draco, let’s go, I don’t want any beetles crawling in my hair. I had it done specially and everything.”

            Draco sighed; Pansy really did care about her hair routine, and Diggory was sending them a stony glare. “Yes, yes, let’s leave all of the bollocks behind us.”

            Still, when he glanced at the pitch one last time, he could have sworn he saw Diggory cheer as Potter caught the Snitch.

            _Interesting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY HERE! Thank you all so much for your patience and support, it keeps me going and inspires me to write the best I can! I promise to try my best to get the next update out quicker, and I finally have time to write, so let's hope I'll write faster. But yeah, no matter how long it takes me I'm dedicated to finishing this fic, so have no fear on that front. Thanks again, I hope you enjoy this.


	12. Message Received, Retaliation, and Draco Malfoy, Private Eye: Part 2

NINE

            _I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternization with that boy._

_It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter—I know that he can be unbalanced, and for all I know, violent—_

_See the_ Prophet _tomorrow-- !_

Ron crushed the letter in his hands and threw it into the fireplace as hard as he could. Percy’s signature started smoking as the flames caught the edges of the pages. “I hate him.”

            “Ron—“

            “Hermione, he’s being one of the biggest gits on the planet right now—“

            “Yes! Yes, he is. Please stop looking at me like that. I just wanted to say that if you want, I-- “ Hermione sighed, looking resigned under Ron’s petulant gaze—“Oh, bugger it all. Give me your papers, both of you. I’ll correct them.”

            Ron sagged, dropping all semblance of his previous Quiddich-addled irritation; his ears were still red from Malfoy’s chants. “You’re a blessing, an absolute life-saver—“            

            Hermione smiled wryly, twisting stray hairs behind her ear. “Oh for goodness’ sake, just hand them over.”

            Ron eagerly passed his homework over to her, but not before glaring into the flames and saying, “Percy’s still a complete prick.”

            Hermione nodded, giving the burning letter one cold glance before setting to work on Ron’s Astronomy work. She paused a few moments in, quill dripping ink onto the page. “Harry? Do you want me to correct your homework? Just for tonight, you know.”

            Harry started. He was still staring at the fire. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks, Hermione.” He smiled as best he could as he handed her his own pile of half-finished homework. A second later, his gaze dragged him back to the fireplace. He’d lived with Percy, they’d known each other for four years, they’d spent summers and the Quidditch World Cup together, and _that’s_ what he really thought of him. Percy talked in his sleep. He hated the tea Mrs. Weasley made in the afternoon. He stood up straight and jerked his chin up and generally looked like a fussy, gangly owl whenever the twins so much as glanced his way. He had been known to crack a smile whenever Bill ruffled his hair in an older-brother sort of way.

            Harry knew all of this about Percy, even though he’d never liked him much. Percy didn’t know a thing about Harry.

            No one seemed to really know him. They all read the _Prophet_ instead.

            The letter was dissolving into ash when suddenly, a face flickered in the flames.

            Harry shook his head. It couldn’t be him, he was under strict orders to remain undercover—

            “ _Harry!”_

            The voice was barely above a whisper, but it was unmistakably Sirius’s, and it was definitely coming from the fire.

            Harry scrambled out of his seat and crouched in front of the flames, and sure enough, Sirius’s face crackled into view, long, tangled hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes glittering out of the fire. “Sirius?”

            “Yes, well, who else were you expecting?” his godfather laughed, sending happy, harmless sparks onto Harry’s shoes. It was almost like an embrace.

            Ron and Hermione joined him on either side almost immediately, eyes wide as Sirius smile warmly at them. “Miss me?”

            Ron grinned. “Not even a little bit. How’s things?”

            “Oh, you know, a bit scorched. A tad burnt. Even crispy. I’ve been waiting ages to talk to you three, nearly got spotted—“     

            “Sirius!” Hermione gasped as Ron and Harry laughed. “You’ve been in this fireplace all day?”

            Sirius rolled his eyes, like a boy about to explain to his parents why he took a cookie from the cookie jar. “Only within the last few hours. Mind you, I was very careful; that tyke only caught the faintest glimpse of me. Probably thought it was a trick of the light or something, not to worry.”

            “But you could have been _seen_ \-- !”

            “And I wasn’t! Not properly, anyway. Hermione, you’re going to turn into Molly if you’re not careful.” He continued more gently as Hermione’s frown deepened, eyes softening as Ron snickered and Harry flicked specks of ash off of his pants. “I’m just pulling your leg. I solemnly swear that I was careful, and I will continue to be careful. Don’t want to go disappointing Albus, do I? Orders are orders.”

            Hermione relented, shoulders dropping. “Thanks.”

            Sirius turned his head to Harry, hoarse voice much more business-like. “Now, Harry, about that letter you wrote me—“           

            “You wrote Sirius?” Hermione and Ron asked at the same time, facing Harry in confusion.

            “Oh—yeah, sorry I forgot to tell you, I got—“ Cho’s smile lingered in his mind—“Distracted.”

            “Yes, well, Harry. About your letter. Umbridge is a complete toad, but she’s not working for Voldemort. She’s too smart to make herself known that way. Better to hide out with the good guys and get the public on your side. And I wouldn’t worry too much about your scar hurting, it’s happened before. Though I’d go to Dumbledore if it gets any worse. Let me know as soon as you’re able if your pain changes. Alright?”

            His eyes bore into Harry’s, stern as McGonagall. “Yeah, I solemnly swear it.”

            “Good.”

            Ron sighed, causing Sirius’s hair to blow back. “I can’t believe she’s not in league with—with You-Know-Who, she’s the bloody _worst_ —“     

            “Yes, well, it’s more of a mess than Death Eaters and everyone else, isn’t it? Anyway. Harry. I checked in with other Order members, and sure enough, the letters you asked about were with us. It took ages to ask around, but I finally got the whole story. Ready for some shite?”

            Harry nodded, pulse quickening, fingers drumming against his knee: _Sirius had Cho and Cedric’s letters. They were real._

Ron and Hermione looked like they were about to ask questions, so Harry held up his hand, muttered, “I’ll fill you in after,” and listened as Sirius drawled on, doing a decent impression of Professor Binns.

           “So. During the summer, I was in Gimmauld Place, as instructed. It’s the headquarters for the Order, all that, so plenty of people passed through on meetings and missions and whatnot. One of them was Mundungus Fletcher. I’m sure you know him?”

            Harry nodded, thinking of the red-faced, half-drunk man Mrs. Figg had yelled at after the Dementor attack.

            “Yes. Well. He’d been assigned to keep an eye on you, almost like that old Squib had been.”

           “Her name is Mrs. Figg.”

           Sirius gave a start. “Yes. Her. Anyway, part of Dung’s job was to intercept any packages sent your way that were from unknown sources. What if someone sent you a curse, what if someone sent you threats, that kind of thing. We knew about Ron and Hermione’s letters, of course, so there was no trouble there, until Dung kept intercepting letters from two unknown sources. He’s not the most motivated, so instead of alerting Dumbledore or any of the higher-ups, he just kept them to himself. Nearly forgot about them, the sleaze. And then he stopped by headquarters for a quick status report, and he had this stack of letters and packages with him, so of course we asked about them, and he said that they were addressed to you. I wasn’t at that meeting, I had my own work to do, but Moody was there. You know him, he doesn’t trust Dung or anyone else, so he collected all of it from Mundungus and told him to keep anything suspicious until further notice. Moody would have reported the letters to Dumbledore, but he got distracted by an emergency call almost as soon as Dung left, and he magicked all of it to a secret compartment in his guest room until he could, and I quote, ‘examine them with the utmost vigilance.’ Other letters and packages were intercepted by Dung, who continued to hole them up in his safe house. Once I got your letter I talked to Dung and finally got this story from him after using, shall we say, persuasive means, and so I got everything from his safe house and convinced Moody to give me the letters buried in his drawer. Sure enough, they were the ones you wanted.”

           Silence answered Sirius’s tale. Ron and Hermione looked utterly flabbergasted.

           Harry did not know what to think. Should he feel angry? Exasperated? Amused? After a long pause, he managed, “So. That was shite.”

           Sirius nodded, hair bouncing. “He’s been reprimanded thoroughly. I’ve got all of the packages here with me, and I’ll be sending them to you over the next few weeks. Be suspicious if I sent them all at once.”

           Harry swallowed. “Alright.”

            Sirius rubbed the back of his neck. “I—you know them? The ones who sent you all that?”

            “Yeah. Yeah, they’d promised to write me.”

            “Ah.”

            Harry nodded stiffly.

            Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “If I’d known—“

            “It’s alright—“

            “No, it isn’t. I’m your godfather, I should’ve stopped this from happening, Dung should’ve done his bloody job—“

            Harry shook his head, hands curling into fists. Something ugly simmered beneath his skin. He pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Just—next time, tell me about whatever gets sent to me. Let me know.” _Don’t leave me alone in that house for the summer ever again._

            Sirius smiled, but it was brittle and tight-lipped. “I’ll tell the other members. Dumbledore, too. I’m sorry, Harry.”

            Harry shrugged, feet hurting from crouching so long. “At least I’ll get them now.”

            “Do—“ Sirius paused, thinking. A slow, bright smile cleared the frown on his face, and his hollowed eyes lit up the fireplace. “Do you want me to deliver the letters in person? Just like King’s Cross, I could go as Padfoot and everything, make sure no one else gets ahold of them—“

 _“No!”_ Harry, Ron, and Hermione whisper-shouted in unison as Sirius’s smile faded.

            “Why not?”

            “The risk involved—“

            “Sod the risk, I need to communicate with my godson—“

             “I dunno, I think it’s best if you stayed put, what with Umbridge here and all—“

             “Me against a Ministry official, that would be fun—“         

              Harry met his godfather’s eyes and did not blink. “Sirius. It’s too dangerous.”

              A pause.

             The fire crackled on.

             Sirius jerked his head to the side, eyes lowered, jaw set. “Kreacher’s mucking something up. You’ll get the letters soon.”

            “Sirius—“

             In the blink of an eye, the fire was just a fire.

             Ron shook his head, muttering under his breath as Hermione stood slowly, casting a worried glance at the flames before scribbling on Ron and Harry’s homework. Ron shuffled off to bed, shoulders hunched like he was back on the Quidditch pitch. Harry’s knees hurt, but he stayed right where he was.

TEN

            To the outside world, Dolores Umbridge was getting more popular by the hour; her pink cardigan brightened every classroom she inspected, her smile brought a cheery atmosphere to the halls she patrolled, and her girlish giggles invited students and staff alike to join her in appreciating some sort of marvelous joke.

            No one laughed with her.

            Ron refused to do his Defense homework in protest, and Hermione challenged the assigned reading in Defense Against the Dark Arts every chance she had. Dean doodled comics of the newly-appointed High Inquisitor getting fired in increasingly ridiculous ways; one comic featured her getting into a duel with McGonagall and losing spectacularly as a horde of toads chased her out of the panel. Seamus muttered Gaelic curses under his breath in class, and Neville always met her simpering smile with an overly-polite grin of his own. Parvati and Lavendar predicted her untimely demise every time the professor inspected Divination. Ginny, it was rumored, had “accidentally” vomited all over Umbridge’s shoes. Fred and George swore they had nothing to do with it, but their eyes gleamed wickedly, and their pockets filled as more and more students clamored for their nougats and lozenges and all manner of treats.

           Slowly but surely, the school was fighting back.

           Harry had detention with Umbridge for the whole week, and he wasn’t the only one. Whispers were passed around the House tables during breakfast, lunch, and dinner about the scars forming on students’ hands; Harry didn’t mean to, of course, but he saw a Hufflepuff with the scarred words _I must not disturb the peace_ on her hand as he left Umbridge’s office and she entered it. The next day, a Ravenclaw stalked out of her office before Harry walked in, and he glimpsed _I must not ask questions_ carved into her hand before she wrapped it in bandages in her robes’ pockets. Harry did not look either of them in the eye, and the other students were only too happy to rush past him. Most of the time, he entered her office alone and left it alone. Seeing those two girls must have been a scheduling error; Umbridge wanted them all to feel separated, isolated, unable to tell anyone else what was happening.

           Harry knew what that life was like, and he was getting tired of it.

           He had barely slept over the weekend, bags darkening under his eyes, hair unwashed, smudged glasses blurring his vision. His nightmares always ended in unanswered questions and constant darkness, a chilled laugh haunting his daydreams as Umbridge tittered to the other teachers in class.

           When Hermione suggested that he teach them all Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry smashed the bowl with the essence of murtlap onto the rug in the common room. He was tired, so tired, and who would listen to him anyway? He was a nutter, off his marbles, depraved—

            He had always been angry, but this was something else, something new, like it was invading his system, wriggling under his skin; Ron and Hermione did not bring up their idea for the whole rest of the week.

            Harry practiced breathing and made silent apologies. He laughed at Ron’s silliest jokes and helped Hermione research house elf magic. He was very careful with the essence of murtlap as he treated his stinging hand.

            The school was fighting back, but was he really the one to lead them all?

            On Thursday, a scraggly barred owl deposited a letter and a package wrapped in heavy brown paper on his crumb-filled lap right as Harry was finishing his dinner. The envelope was a faint lavender color, smelled of prunes, and had a small tea stain on the corner. It was addressed to no one, but the owl was quite insistent that Harry take the items, so he did; besides, he was sure about who sent them. Harry carried the letter and the package into the common room with Ron and Hermione close behind, bickering about something or other as Harry sat in his armchair. Hermione ended her argument with Ron by calling for Crookshanks, who bounded into the room and settled on Hermione’s lap. Ron rolled his eyes as Harry opened the envelope. The letter itself was written on thick, yellow paper, and in elegant, careful script, it read:

_Harry,_

_Before you ask, your address is written in magical invisible ink that I’ve had since I was young; it’s been banned for years, but I’ve still got some left. It’s far too out-of-date for the average Ministry official to catch on to it, and besides, no one suspects a registered Squib of anything._

_I appreciate your concern about my aging joints, but you should know that I have my cats trained very well; Buji fetched me my arthritis cream the day after you put it there. No need to worry about me, I can handle myself._

_I’ve been informed of Dung’s negligence, and believe me, if I had my way, he’d be booted out of the Order and on his way to Azkaban. This isn’t the first time he’s bungled a mission, and mark my words, it won’t be the last. The cats hated it whenever he crashed into the house for whiskey. Alas, Albus finds him useful, so he’s simply on leave for now. I assure you that I am the sole monitor of Privet Drive after that fiasco, and I will not be so careless. Letters are important, vital sources of communication. Yours will not go overlooked._

_A professor who dislikes cats? If it is who I think it is, I’ve provided you with a parcel for her. A treat, one might say. Present it to her at your convenience._

_Of course, there’s something for you in the package as well._

_In answer to your excessive post-script: There weren’t any house elves in India, nor any creatures like them, until the British came. I’d recommend reading_ A Unicorn in Zimbabwe, and Other Stories _by A. L. Chinodya along with_ British India: Life Under Occupation _by Fatima Davi for more information; I can only offer my own experience, and the nice bookseller in Diagon Alley told me that those books were classics in their genres. She was very helpful, that bookseller, and kind too. I must say that I was pleasantly surprised; I suppose that I have gotten too accustomed to Privet Drive. Lest you think I have forgotten my vows of discrepancy and constant vigilance in the name of the Order, don’t be too concerned; she was too young for me anyway._

_On with the story: My parents actually bought a house elf when they moved to Britain for the first time; they wanted to impress their neighbors, you see. Her name was Poppy. They kept her until I was around ten years old, and they set her free as part of my birthday present. She was one of my best friends, and she told me about how she longed to travel the world. I have not seen her since._

_Be well._

_I look forward to our correspondence._

_-Mrs. Figg_

_P.S.: As it is Vladimir and Chaaya’s birthdays next Saturday, I fully expect you to respond by then, and to send the dears a parcel or two._

           Harry unwrapped the package with the help of Ron and Hermione.

           His gift was homemade macaroons and pictures of Vladimir and Chaaya, with their gift preferences scribbled on the backs of their photos.

           The other gift was a slightly squashed meat pie that, upon closer inspection, smelled faintly of beef and Arthur’s Choice Chunks.

           Hermione gaped at the pie as Ron tried to shoo Crookshanks away, who was looking at the pastry with a predator’s gaze. “Did she—is that-- ?”

           “She did,” Harry answered, grinning, and he made sure to tuck the macaroons, the photos, and the pie underneath his bed for safe keeping.

            The school was fighting back. Perhaps he could start fighting too.

ELEVEN

            Draco Malfoy was not one for eavesdropping, or spying, or any other kind of uncouth, unbecoming work; those kinds of things were meant for Crabbe and Goyle. But he knew an opportunity when it presented itself, and that is how Draco found himself standing outside of an abandoned classroom after lunch, listening to Diggory, Chang, and Potter discuss what surely must be useful information:

            “Alright, but what if no one agrees to do it?”

            “Then we’ll make them.”

            “….What Cedric means to say is that we’ll convince them. I’ve got loads of friends who’ll support this—“

            “Same, my mates’ll have your back, they need the practice anyway—“

            “Ok. Ok. So you really think we can pull this off?”

            “Absolutely.”

            “It’s worth the risks; we need a win, you know? And this could be it. This could be our win.”

            “…Thanks.”

            “Not a problem, Harry.”

            “We’ll see you when the time comes.”

            Footsteps were getting louder as they approached the door; Draco glared at a snickering portrait of some old jester as he walked quickly towards the men’s lavatory around the corner.

            Potter and the others were getting to be thick as thieves, weren’t they? What were they planning?

            It had to do with Quidditch, he was sure of it; why else would they talk about winning? Why else would the three other Seekers be talking?

            As Draco smoothed his hair in the mirror, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of—it wasn’t jealousy, he was above such pettiness. It was—Draco adjusted his Slytherin tie—it was curiosity. Whatever they were scheming behind his back, he was going to know about it. Nothing was going to stand in the way of Slytherin’s path to the Quidditch Cup, especially not Potter.

            Draco resolved to alert Flint to a potential threat to the team as he left the lavatory, hair in place, robes smooth.

            _You think you’ll win, Potter? Think again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first lines of Percy's letter at NINE are right from the book, they belong to JK Rowling, etc. Also, in case you aren't sure what Arthur's Choice Cuts are, here is a brief commercial for the product (contains flashing lights and bright colors): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPz04HvSR9c  
> ALSO, if you guys are interested in checking out more diverse HP fics written by incredibly talented authors of color, I'd recommend checking out racebendingharrypotter.tumblr.com, it's got loads of material, fics included. If anyone has other suggestions, feel free to let me know, and I'll add them here.  
> Hope you like this update, thanks for the awesome comments and kudos and the like!


	13. The Hog's Head Supports Even More Illegal Activity, Hermione Knits New Hats, and Harry Opens His Letters

TWELVE

            “Ron, for the last time, Viktor isn’t—“

            “You were— _mooning_ over him all of last year—“

            “We’re pen pals, not—anything more than that—“

            “You hesitated.”

            “ _Ron_ —Ron, look. We talk about paintings a lot, honestly; he loves art, he’s incredibly interested in paintings, and I write to him about house elves because did you know there weren’t any native to Bulgaria, but there are some wizards-- I won’t call them by their official occupation titles, they are _scum--_ from the English magical community who—who sold some house elves to rich Bulgarian families and now it’s all the rage and Viktor had to convince his parents not to get one, and anyway, we just write about stuff like that! I sent him a spinner ring and he sent me some fresh quills and ink! We’re _friends_ , Ron.”

            “…..Alright.”

            Hermione sighed in relief, running a hand through her frizzy hair.

            There was a second of peace before Ron opened his mouth, face still blotchy and red, blurting out, “But—“

             Hermione threw up her hands. “Shut your mouth, Ronald Weasely. Surely our friendship can weather a few letters to a strictly platonic pen pal—“

             “Sod off,” Harry snapped, and Ron startled while Hermione adjusted her Gryffindor scarf with shaking fingers. Harry quieted his voice, burying the sudden irritation in his chest. “Can we just—save this all for later, please? I’m—we’re—it’s time for the first meeting.” The October air bit at their noses, and Harry wrapped his Weasley sweater more tightly around him.

            “Right,” Hermione managed after a long pause, drawing her shoulders back, chin held high. “Right, let’s go.”

            She flung the door to the Hog’s Head open with a bit too much force, causing the bartender to glance at them before returning to giving a customer their order. He had an ancient face, a long, matted beard, and blue eyes that —for a moment—looked oddly familiar. No one in the Hog’s Head seemed to be too concerned by Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s overzealous entrance, and the smell of stale liquor permeated the air while various figures talked in low voices, robes dark and nondescript: clearly, this was a place for those who didn’t want to be seen or heard. Harry could appreciate that, even if the Hog’s Head wasn’t known for being friendly or sanitary or legal.

            He nearly startled when he saw a noxiously green, scaly snout poke out from a long, draping hood. A goblin sitting across from the figure laughed in a raspy voice, chortling, “You always tell the best jokes.”

           Harry thought he heard the goblin’s companion hiss—perhaps appreciatively?—in response. At another table nearby, a witch was fiddling furiously with tarot cards, eyes squeezed shut as she muttered under her breath. Harry glanced towards the back of the Hog’s Head and caught a glimpse of a small, pointy-eared figure ducking out of the way of a rather tall wizard, and—Harry blinked—what was _a house elf_ doing at the Hog’s Head? Before he could think about this further, Hermione was already tugging him towards a free table while Ron sat down in a three-legged chair, staking claim to their seats while also gazing longingly at the bartender’s shot glasses.

           “Alright, alright,” he grumbled under Hermione’s stony glare, and Harry was glad that they seemed to have forgotten about their spat. He glanced around the room a final time before settling into his own seat at the long table.

           “Harry?” Hermione asked when Harry plopped into his chair. “Are you alright?”

           “Yeah, yeah, just—happy Sirius isn’t here.” That wasn’t the whole truth, of course. Harry tried to ignore the sinking disappointment in his chest, and he tried to think of the meeting at hand rather than Sirius’s cold stare in the fire, and he tried to let the relief of not seeing his godfather at the Hog’s Head run its course so he could think about teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, but, well. Sometimes trying wasn’t enough.

            Hermione gave him a sympathetic pat on his shoulder while Ron said sagely, “It’s for the best.”

            Harry nodded, and looked at the long table they were at instead. “Er…Hermione….how many people are coming to this?”

            Hermione swallowed, like she was about to take a particularly tricky exam. “Ah. Yes. Look, it wasn’t—I didn’t intend for it to get like this, but—ugh. It turns out that a number of students want to listen to you, Harry. They want to learn.”

            She had gone from nervous to fervent in the span of a second, and there was no room for argument. Harry’s hands clenched, and his voice came out a bit higher than usual. “So—so there’ll be more than a few people at this. Thing. Alright.”

            Ron gripped his shoulder. “We’re with you every step of the way, mate. If anyone says anything we’ll take care of them.”

            Hermione nodded curtly, jaw clenched.

            Harry allowed himself to smile as nervousness took over, and as Dean and Seamus walked into the Hog’s Head, holding hands and grinning at some private joke. They spotted Harry almost immediately, and while Dean shook Harry’s hand warmly, Seamus coughed a bit before saying, “’M—‘m sorry about before. It’s just—Mam gets a certain way sometimes, and anyway—the _Prophet_ can’t always be right.” He steeled himself before thrusting out his hand.

            Harry gripped the other boy’s hand a bit too hard (he had not forgotten the way he had sneered when Harry mentioned the graveyard) but Seamus took his place at the table next to Dean all the same.

            Neville arrived shortly after, grinning more brightly than Harry had seen in weeks, and Ginny and Luna were right on his heels, hands tangled together as they slid into the chairs. Ron choked on his watery Butterbeer when Luna kissed Ginny’s cheek and said to Harry, “I’ve made sure that no Nargles are listening in.”

            Ginny giggled into her hands. Harry tried to look as gratified as possible while sweat stuck to his palms. “Right. Yeah. Thanks, Luna.”

            He didn’t have much time to think about Defense Against the Dark Arts or speaking in front of a number of people or Nargles before Parvati and Padma Patil strode in. Parvati brushed a stray leaf off of her violet pea-coat and smoothed her high-waisted skirt before seating herself, waving at Harry in greeting. Padma, dressed in a tweed jacket and old jeans, adjusted her blue bowtie briefly before settling into her chair without a fuss, giving Harry a single approving smile before turning to Luna to chat about magical properties of stardust. Lavender Brown entered next, box braids swishing slightly as she grinned at Harry. He couldn’t help but notice Parvati choking on her Butterbeer when Lavender squeezed in next to her, shoulders brushing hers. Then Fred, George, Lee Jordan, and Angelina Johnson all burst into the Hog’s Head like they were coming home after a long journey, and soon the table was filled with chattering and Butterbeers being sipped and hands grabbing at napkins and eyes looking curiously at Harry.

            “You’re gonna ace it, mate,” Ron muttered under his breath, and Harry took a deep breath, feeling like maybe they could actually pull this off—

            Then, of course, Cedric walked in with his gaggle of friends. He was laughing about something his friend said—Zoe, that was her name—and grinned merrily at Harry as he found seats for him and his mates. His hair was in a small ponytail, and he wore suspenders over a light pink sweater with a snitch in the middle of it.

            Harry put his face in his hands, and just as he was ready to resurface and look Cedric in the face again, Cho stepped into the Hog’s Head, Marietta and Michael and Anthony and Terry Boot and a few others not far behind. Her and Anthony and Terry and a girl named Amarissa were chatting about Yom Kippur and how their families spent the day, and how nice it was to eat again after fasting, though they weren’t looking forward to the schoolwork they had to catch up on. Cho’s navy flannel sleeves were rolled up, and she wore a Spice Girls t-shirt underneath, and her polka dot skirt had a few errant twigs sticking to it, and her striped leg warmers bunched up around her leggings and—Harry couldn’t stop staring—her hair was even shorter than before. About as short as any of the boys.’ She had marched into the room, but stopped just as she reached an empty seat, cheeks growing pink under multiple stares. She brushed back floppy bangs—her hair had been wavy when it was long—drew in a breath, and announced, “If we’re going to be rebels, I might as well look the part.”

            Anthony Goldstein pumped his fist in the air as he plopped into his seat, eyes gleaming. “Hear, hear!” He wore a bright blue scarf along with many other layers, and his hat looked suspiciously hand-knit, judging by the lumpy way it fit on his head.

            Terry Boot let out a booming laugh as he ran a hand over his flat top. Michael Corner blew his nose and grinned along with Padma and Luna along with a couple of students Harry didn’t recognize, and the surprised silence was broken. Cedric reached across the table to give Cho a high five, ponytail bouncing as he offered his congratulations on the new hairstyle, and Harry wondered if they were conspiring to destroy him in the process.

             Harry shook his head and fixed his gaze on Marietta to distract himself, and there she was, sitting in her Hogwarts robes. She had not said a word to anyone, and was instead buried in a book. In minutes, a swarm of other students were taking seats—Harry caught Dennis and Colin Creevey, and Ernie McMillan, and Susan Bones with Hannah Abbot, and some others—and Harry felt his heartbeat spike. _This was a rubbish idea._

            After a few more minutes of exchanging greetings and passing more drinks along and chatting about all manner of things, Hermione rose, chair squealing in protest, and announced in a high-pitched voice, “So! Let’s get started!”

            The next hour went by in a blur, as Hermione grew braver and more passionate with every word, as Ron stood stalwart by Harry’s side and threatened to duel anyone who argued with Harry. Ginny nearly hexed someone, Luna tended to go off on tangents about spotted Bamboozle Beasts, and Terry Boot’s deep voice tended to smother everyone else’s.

            “Sorry,” he said, quieting, almost bashful. “I’m just—this is the best I’ve felt all year. This is what Hogwarts is meant to do.” He flexed his considerable biceps in preparation for contradiction, but there was none.

             Anthony Goldstein patted Terry on the back and said, measured and serious and with a hint of a smile, “I reckon we’re meant to be here. I reckon they’ll fight to keep us from this, but there isn’t—they can’t destroy this. They can’t destroy us. We’re going to keep at it, no matter what.” He was one of the first to sign Hermione’s membership parchment, and Cho gripped his shoulder in silent support.

             Susan Bones’s voice crackled like fire; she was normally quiet and plain, but her whole body blazed when she spoke of how the Ministry was corrupted by cowards, how her aunt sent her letters full of warnings. “They’re scared of us, and we’re just getting started.”

             Imogen Fiend, seventh-year Hufflepuff prefect, towered over most of the other students, and her voice was soft, but it carried just the same. “If we don’t defend ourselves, no one else will. We need to be there for each other. If we’re together, nothing’s going to stop us, not Umbridge or the bloody Ministry or anyone.”

             Cedric and Bertie and Zoe nodded in agreement, and they shared a look of mutual understanding, friends making silent promises.

             For his part, Harry was starting to feel as excited as Hermione did, as certain as Ron; maybe this could actually work. Maybe this could change things.

            There were doubters, of course; Zacharias Smith relished playing the devil’s advocate, and when Marietta deigned to look up from her book, it was to scowl at Harry. Cedric and Cho did their best to work with their housemates; Cho debated fiercely with Roger Davies and Helen Dawlish for fifteen minutes about academic integrity and moral truths, while Cedric silenced Zacharias Smith and Helena Richardson, a short girl in his own year, with nothing but a stony glare, or soft-spoken promises of, “We’ll talk about this later.” Harry felt his face heat up any time either of them mentioned him, and felt…..defended, which was new and strange and a bit embarrassing. Still. He spoke, and everyone listened. That had to count for something. There were so many questions, so many complications, and while a first meeting couldn’t solve everything, it was better than silence.

            By the time Harry had gotten back to his dormitory, face flush, limbs taught with anticipation, he had decided that as far as rebellions go, this one was off to a good start.

THIRTEEN

            Educational Decree Number Twenty Four was nailed to the wall with all the others the following Monday, but Sirius didn’t seem concerned in the least.

            It was a bit jarring—he had been so abrupt and frustrated the last time they had talked—but Harry couldn’t help but feel an immense wave of happiness over seeing his godfather again, and laughed along with him, intensely relieved; they were on good terms again. Sirius was speaking to him again, he cared about him, he thought they were doing a good thing. Even with the new Decree, Harry felt hopeful in a way he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time; hope hadn’t served him well when he was younger, but maybe now he could smile with Sirius and feel secure in his dogged support, in his constancy.

            “I reckon James would be proud of you all,” Sirius said, beaming. “We’d have done the same thing, you know, and—you have my seal of approval, and his, for what it’s worth.”

            Ron glowed, and Harry said, “Thanks, Sirius.” He almost reached out and touched the fire before pulling back just in time.

            Hermione remained oddly silent throughout the conversation, and when Sirius left, sending them a thumbs-up, she spoke haltingly. “Is this…..are we really doing the right thing?”

            “’Course we are!” Ron replied, looking incensed. “Sirius loves the idea, what more do you need?”

            Hermione frowned. “I just…I think he’d love to be here. I think he’d love to leave Grimmauld Place. Doesn’t that—shouldn’t that impact him?”

            “What d’you mean?” Harry asked, anger sudden and burning in his chest. No one was going to take Sirius away from him, and no one was going to doubt his judgment. Harry knew what it was like to be trapped, to be useless, to find any way out and take it, no matter what—what did _she_ know, what did _any_ of them know—

            Hermione’s bottom lip trembled, and she spoke anyway. “Harry, I’m sorry, it’s—Sirius can be a bit…never mind.”

            She didn’t bring it up again, and left to work on her hats and scarves for house elves. “They’re a peace offering,” she explained a while later, when Harry didn’t want to hex her and Ron was fiddling with one of his old chess pieces as it bantered with him. “A lot of the elves kept returning them, or leaving them alone, and I thought, well I can’t just waste them, otherwise it would all be---so anyway, I’m going to give these as gifts to the heads of the house elf staff. Elves don’t mind gifts as long as it’s not from their masters, you know, I just read about it the other day—and also, Angelina is afraid the Quidditch team will be canceled permanently, we should talk to her about that—oh! I’m seeing her to talk about hair care later, mine’s getting too unmanageable—if I talk to her and you talk to her she’ll be fine. Also you should talk to Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell, and see if they’re still keen on joining and signing the paper and everything.“

            She was still nervous from earlier. She also hadn’t back down, not completely. Harry nodded in the right places and helped her pick a color for the next scarf, and moved away to play chess with Ron and complain with him about homework for the rest of the night.

FOURTEEN

            Rebellion, Harry learned, was about the small things.

            Sure, the speeches were important, and grand gestures and complicated wand demonstrations were appreciated, but when it came down to it, Dumbledore’s Army was held together through moments and tiny acts of defiance within the larger web of active protest.

            Harry helped adjust Neville’s grip on his wand, and Terry brought his boom-box into the Room of Requirement and blasted music to get everyone focused and “ready to be in sync, just like my Quidditch team workouts.” The other Ravenclaw Quidditch players all groaned; apparently they’d heard this music before. But before long everyone was singing along to Elastica and The Brotherhood, along with some wizard bands played on what must have been the magical version of a CD player, though it looked too strange to really be one. The bands were called Lumosity and The Mermaid Warriors, and students moved to the beats as they fired spells at practice dummies and mock dueled each other.

            Imogen, Zoe, and Bertie led the DA in chants before and after meetings, and Michael Corner and Dean worked together on decorating the space with posters mocking the Educational Decrees and the Ministry. Cedric talked the younger students through being scared to perform magic in front of older students, and Cho cheered and applauded whenever someone mastered a spell. Seamus taught some other students spells in Gaelic, while Parvati and Padma told Harry about some useful defensive spells in Telugu, “for extra protection,” and Harry realized how much he could learn from the students he was trying to lead.

            Luna’s spellwork needed a lot of help, but she was getting better and better at disarming the dummy, and Ginny’s hexes were dangerous from day one. Zacharias Smith still complained the most, and Marietta practiced spells with a near-constant frown, but they still went to the meetings. They still learned.

            Sometimes, all it took was Hermione giving out books on the Dark Arts, or Ron gleefully disarming Zacharias, or Cedric laughing at something Harry said, or Cho smiling right at him, and Harry felt like they were making a difference.

            He dropped off Mrs. Figg’s special meat pie at Umbridge’s door while she was meeting with the other teachers, and he wrote to Sirius about how Ernie blustered his way through a brilliant display of Stunning, and how Hannah Abbott could levitate entire book cases to crush enemies under.

            The next time he went to detention, Umbridge turned green whenever she glanced at the cat portraits hanging on her wall. Harry noticed an empty pie tin in her wastebasket and fought down a smirk.

            He got the first batch of Cho and Cedric’s letters from the summer.

            Harry opened them late at night, when everyone was asleep. He propped himself up on his elbows and smiled and blushed to himself in the dark. He read the letters, and when he was finished he wiped his eyes on his pajama sleeve, a sudden lump in his throat. Cho’s blurry, shaky photos from the hospital wing were tucked away underneath his bed, but he grinned whenever he thought of them. He read the letters over and over again, along with Sirius’s and Mrs. Weasley’s and Ron and Hermione’s. His fingers traced the ink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, a new chapter! Hope you guys enjoy it, thanks so much for your continued support and for reading this fic in the first place. :) 
> 
> And yes, Umbridge accidentally ate meat pie that contained cat food, along with other things. Mrs. Figg shows no mercy to those who cross her or the people she cares about, especially if they don't like cats.


	14. Rallying Cry (Fighting Words and Late Nights), Draco Malfoy, Private Eye: Part 3, Interlude #4, and the World Opens Wide

FIFTEEN

          “I bet the patients at St. Mungo’s would love to hear you, Potter, Merlin knows they’re depraved enough. They’d look at you like _this_ , see—?”

          “Don’t you ever—don’t you _dare_ —“

           Harry had never seen Neville move so fast, with such purpose, and he had never seen Malfoy look so surprised, even fearful, as the other boy scrambled towards him.

           Harry and Ron and Dean and Seamus all held Neville back while Malfoy tried to strut away, except it looked more like scampering than any sort of smoother exit.

           Neville didn’t stop shaking, even after Malfoy had gone.

           It wasn’t from fear, Harry realized, breathing hard as Ron and Dean and Seamus made sure to ask if Neville wanted to see Madame Pomfrey.

           No, it wasn’t from fear at all.

           That night, Harry wandered through door after door after door, searching for something just out of reach for what felt like the thousandth time—he turned a corner, felt the accustomed anticipatory glee surge through him, and it was as close to joy as he would ever feel—he reached out his hand to grasp a silver door handle—his white, long-fingered hand--

           Harry awoke with short gasps seizing his lungs, blinking frantically, jamming his glasses on with shaking fingers, because—

           Because that hadn’t been him feeling those things, that had been—Harry rubbed his scar frantically— _someone else._

           He fiddled with the chess piece Ron had given him last summer to ground himself; Harry slept with it around his neck, a talisman or good luck charm or a reminder that he had a best mate who would help him even while he was snoring loud enough to wake the giant squid.

           Ron rolled over after a while, mumbling about house elves playing Quidditch or something. Harry’s breathing slowed, and he was just pulling the covers over his chest when he became aware of another noise, this one much softer than snoring or gasps or the wind whispering against the castle stones.

           Harry leaned forward, eyes following the sliver of moonlight cast by one of the windows, and saw a lumpy, trembling shape, short dreadlocks just visible over the covers.

           Neville was crying in the dark, shoulders shaking with tremendous effort as he sobbed into his pillow.

           Harry tried and failed to go back to sleep, thinking about the alien, knifelike happiness of the dream, how Neville tried so hard to quiet himself, and the way the knight felt against his fingers, wooden and smooth. Eventually (Harry did not bother looking at the clock), Neville stopped crying. _This_ , Harry swore, yawning _, this is why there’s a Dumbledore’s Army._

           He made sure to pass Neville extra tissues the next morning, muttering, “the cold’s going around, don’t want to catch anything on top of everything else.” Ron whispered jokes to Neville at lunch before Potions, and Hermione helped him with Snape’s assignments as much as she could. He smiled guiltily, and couldn’t seem to stop saying thank you. He spent a lot of time by himself over the next few days, often leaving the common room at odd moments and staring at nothing. Sometimes, Ginny and Luna and Hannah Abbot would invite him to trips to Hogsmeade, and towards the end of the week he accepted.

           Neville clenched his fists whenever Malfoy was in the general vicinity, but, Harry thought selfishly, at least it would get the prat off his own back, and everyone else’s.

           When Neville disarmed Seamus on a dreary Saturday evening, the whole room shook with cheers and applause. Neville wiped his eyes and beamed.

 _This is why there’s a Dumbledore’s Army,_ Harry thought, and willed himself to remember that as the back of his hand was cut open, as Umbridge smiled when she looked at his wrist, and as the sickening joy from the dream seized him in the daytime, too.

SIXTEEN

            _Dear Father,_

_~~It seems that I have yet to master~~_

_~~I can’t~~_

_~~Your help would be greatly appreciated~~ _

            Potter was off the Gryffindor team, banned for life along with that pack of Weasels, but what Draco remembered most acutely was going to Madame Pomfrey afterwards for a bloody nose. He still worried that it was broken, that she hadn’t checked it properly. You never knew, with halfbloods. He should be celebrating, but instead he couldn’t stop thinking about that fist smashing against his face, and blood running down his robes, and how Longbottom was growing his nasty bits of hair even longer nowadays. It was all very disconcerting, these feelings of triumph and total humiliation.

            It was hard growing up.

            So Draco took a walk around Hogsmeade instead of doing schoolwork with Pansy and Nott, and when he glimpsed the shuttered, creaking house on the hill, he decided for no particular reason that he was going to go inside it.

            He knew about the Shrieking Shack, of course, and he still froze up whenever he thought of practically-homeless, pathetically harmless Professor Lupin turning into something so deadly. It almost made Draco regretful over—well, over a number of things.

            All regret and any trace of humiliation vanished as soon as he saw Potter, Diggory, and Chang coming out of the shack.

            There weren’t many places to hide on the grassy hilltop, so Draco immediately cast an invisibility spell over himself. He hadn’t perfected it yet; his whole body tingled, like there were insects crawling over every inch of him, and the spell would only last a few minutes. Still, if the other three Quidditch players were planning to sabotage Slytherin’s next game, or embezzle betting money from other students about the championships, or concoct a ridiculous scheme of any sort, Draco had to be the first to know about it.

            A fly landed on his knee, so he didn’t catch all of the conversation, but he managed to listen to snippets:

            “All of the hogwash aside, are we all set for next Friday? The pitch isn’t being used, and we’ll have it all to ourselves, no rules or bans or anything—“

            “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks guys, you don’t have to or anything—“

            “C’mon, we love the game too. Besides, I could use the extra practice, my aim’s been a bit off lately.”

            Draco finally swatted the fly off his leg, and frowned as they chatted so amicably, like it was just completely normal to collaborate with other teams’ seekers and swap strategy.

            Something was deeply wrong, and Draco was going to find out what it was before it got out of hand and ruined Slytherin’s uncontested path to the championship. Their words were being snatched away by the wind, but a few snippets were tossed his way as the three of them headed down the hill:

            “You wouldn’t believe how much Jessica cried when I left her to go get something to eat, or when Gregory—sorry, Marvin—threw up all over his high chair, he really didn’t like the cereal I gave him—and Lottie was the best behaved out of all of them, really, she just slept a lot.”

            “Well you’re going to be their favorite cousin, that’s for sure. My cousin Jen adores me, every time we visit her and the uncles in London she acts like it’s been centuries—“

            “Yeah, I mean, there’s cousin Quinton, but he’s a lot older, he mostly sends us sweaters and stale fruitcake on holidays….Anyway, Aunt Rosa and Uncle Douglas sent me a thank-you care package last week, got loads of Chocolate Frogs. That was my summer, really: Babysitting and going for runs. Well, and writing letters to the editor about all the _Prophet_ rubbish. Got too worked up not to do anything, yeah? Oh, and my hair—well, it looks nice long, I think.”

            “Yes, Cedric, the whole school agrees with you on that one.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “Don’t be daft, you have to know—Harry, back me up—“

            There was laughter and jokes Draco couldn’t quite hear. Why were they all so bloody chummy? Since when did Potter hang around anyone other than Weasel and Mudblood Granger? And why were they at the Shrieking Shack, of all places?

            Questions for another day; the three of them had walked out of earshot, and all Draco could hear were the clunks and jangles coming from Diggory’s large rucksack and—he squinted—did Chang have a hammer? What were they doing, building their own broomsticks? Creating their own secret meeting place in the Shrieking Shack so as to conduct their illicit affairs in secret? No, that was foolish. Draco shook his head, trying to come up with better answers, when suddenly the tingling stopped, and he was visible, crouching against the hillside like some common beggar. He almost smacked his nose when a snowflake landed on it, but thought better of it the last second. Good to know he wasn’t actually incapacitated.

            By the time he made it back to the common room, he’d missed out on Pansy and Nott’s scoolwork session, but that was fine; it was Potions, he could get full marks in his sleep.

            No, Draco had more important maters to attend to, like—

            “Why are your robes covered in grass?”

            Draco rolled his eyes; typical of Pansy, always right to the point.

            “If you must know, Parkinson, I was simply taking note of the meeting that Potter, Diggory, and Chang were having at the Shrieking Shack—“           

            “What? Why were they—all three of them, really?”

            “Yes, really. I’m not sure what they’re planning, but we’d best keep on our toes. Next match is coming up soon, and with Potter and the others off the team—“ Here they exchanged high fives—“We need to be ready.”

            Nott was not one for speculation, nor was he a boy of many words. When he spoke, it was in his own slow and deliberate way, like a viper about to strike. “Dinner’s going to be soon.”

            Or he was just hungry; with Nott’s dry tone, it was difficult to tell when he was being serious or abrupt or bored or sarcastic or, Merlin forbid, any other emotion.

            Pansy stood, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “You two go, I have business matters to settle.”

            Draco snorted. “What, that lipstick sale you’re running? Tell me about it when I give a damn.”

            A pause.

            Nott raised an eyebrow, Pansy’s borrowed eye shadow accentuating his dark gaze, and Pansy ignored Draco entirely, counting the Sickles in her robe’s pockets instead.

            His father had told him that apologies were often a sign of weakness, that such things should be deployed rarely, if at all.

            Pansy walked towards the entrance of the common room, stiff and proud.

            “Parkinson—I’m sorry.”

            She nodded once, said, “We’ll talk more over tea tonight.”

            Nott rolled his eyes and muttered something in Korean before switching back to English and saying, “You always get the daftest things in your head, Draco. I’m going to eat some pasties.”

            Just like that, he was gone, and Draco was alone; Crabbe and Goyle were off to dinner by now, no doubt stuffing their faces, the pigs.

            Draco shook his head, wishing the squirming guilt would go away. He hated apologizing, he hated exercising his wit on the wrong people, on his friends--         

            What he needed most of all was certainty. He knew, of course, that his family was powerful because they were clever, ambitious, resourceful, and pureblood. He knew that everyone else (the Mudbloods, the halfbloods, the monsters, the madmen, the bloodtraitors—the list was quite a long one) didn’t have the capability of rising to such heights. They were all weak, inadequate, below him. These were the facts of the world; since his mother had kissed his cheeks, since his father had patted his head, Draco had been convinced of his family’s greatness. Yet did not know if he would receive all that he was promised, when the time came. He was changing, and so was everything else.

            So he talked about Potter and the other two seekers with Pansy over tea, and she told him about how Patil and Brown had outsold her yet again, and they both vowed to beat their various competitors into the ground. A typical night, all in all.

            And yet:

            _Dear Father,_

_~~I have a few questions~~_

_~~How do other houses~~_

_~~What do apologies accomplish~~_

Curiosity gnawed at him like a starving dog, and shame burned deep in his chest, and Draco crumpled up his letters to his father.

            He did his very best to ignore Longbottom’s terrible hair and newfound cockiness and Potter’s small smiles to no one in particular. Draco was used to seeing his scowl, constantly on the defensive, as he should be. This was something wholly different, and he hated it. He had to find out why, he had to know the answers to these pressing questions. He had to stop feeling guilt and embarrassment and anger and other emotions that were beneath him.

            When Professor Umbridge asked him to join the Inquisitorial Squad, Draco said yes without a second thought.

 

 

 

 

SEVENTEEN

           

_Harry:_

_I am glad you put your professor’s gift to good use. I expect you to tell your friends about the benefits of such presents to your esteemed instructor. With any luck, she will be so pleased so as to go into blissful early retirement._

_While Chaaya appreciated the birthday gift you sent her, Vladimir has refused to play with his; yarn is never a bad idea when it comes to cats, and he usually likes those, so I am not sure why he has been so finicky lately. Well. I do know why: he is old, and he is a cat._

_My sincerest apologies for the lateness of this letter. I had to accept a mission from the Order and could not communicate with anyone outside of my superiors. (Before you ask: It was writing and organizing the dullest paperwork imaginable, though of course it was done with the utmost secrecy (I am a professional, after all) but Merlin, just be grateful that you do not have to do property taxes for a place that does not technically exist.)_

_The books I mentioned in my previous letter are being sent with this letter, though do not be surprised if they arrive a day or two later; the owls the Order have bequeathed to me are almost as old as I am, though not nearly as efficient._

_Privet Drive is getting colder by the day, though we have yet to have anything other than slush and occasional flurries. Just as well. My knees can only take so much._

_I used to love winter. Over the holidays we would go to Punjab and I would visit family, and my friend. I always felt so smug about it, soaking up the sun while my friends froze their arses off. And when I came back, it was so wondrous, to get snow on my boots and in my hair and on my tongue, and to feel the cold bite my nose. Until I had to shovel snow off of our apartment’s front steps, that is!_

_My friend, she wanted to come visit me, a few times. I always sent her postcards of blizzards, complaining about it all. But she loved it. ~~She~~_

_Harry, I hope that when all of this nonsense is over, you will go to India. I know that it is far, and different for you, and that you are not from Punjab, but I hope that you go to India anyway._

_Speaking of which, I had to sort through some of the Order’s archived files as part of my mission, and I came across bits of your parents’ records. Most of it was useless rubbish, but I did find a photograph of James when he was a boy, and he was with what looked like his family. The back of the photograph stated that it was taken in Kerala, which is in South India, so it is a likely place for James’s family to be from. I should say your family, because that is what they are. I have forgotten to send you the photo along with the books, but it will come soon enough, over your holiday break. I keep my promises._

_I do not celebrate Christmas, and neither do you, but I have sent you laddu anyway; they were always served at holidays in my family, and you should like them._

_I have babbled long enough, and you must be tired of reading an old woman’s ravings._

_Good luck with exams, and have a pleasant holiday._

_\-- Mrs. Figg_

_Dear Mrs. Figg,_

_Thank you for your letter and for the books and for the laddu. It’s gotten very popular in the Gryffindor common room, I’ve had to hide the rest of it in my trunk._

_I’m glad that Chaaya likes her yarn, and I hope that Vladimir adjusts to his._

_I am sad to say that our dearest professor has gotten ill numerous times over the last few weeks, and it seems her sickness can be traced back to various food products gifted by generous students who shall remain nameless. One hopes that she will recover in time for exams, though no one knows for certain._

_You aren’t raving, and your letters aren’t babbling._

_If I ever go to India, you’ll be the first to know._

_I hope your holidays are pleasant as well, and that you don’t have to do rubbish paperwork. I’ve sent you an early Christmas gift, though it’s not really about Christmas._

_Sorry this letter is short, exams are approaching._

_Thanks,_

_Harry_

_P.S.: Ron says thank you for the laddu and his favorite professor’s special gift._

_P.P.S.: Hermione says thank you for the books. We’re reading them together._

            _P.P.P.S: Not to be rude, but can you see thestrals? Hagrid’s teaching us about them, and I haven’t a clue about taking care of invisible animals._

EIGHTEEN

            Exams were finally over, and even though Harry’s left hand ached from writing for so long, the words scarred into his skin prickling with every quill stroke, he drank his celebratory warm pumpkin juice with a smile on his face.

            Hermione kept trying to talk to him about _A Unicorn in Zimbabwe, and Other Stories_ because, “Harry you need to get to the next part, it’s so good and informative—“

            “Give it a rest, Hermione, he’ll read it when he hasn’t just finished an arseload of exams,” Ron snorted, stretching out on the sofa in the common room as much as his long legs would allow.

            Harry shrugged and was about to respond when he was suddenly in the corridor from his dreams, and a vicious need tugged at him as he reached for something--    

            “—Mate—Harry, you alright?”

            “Yeah,” Harry managed, shaking his pounding head. He focused as hard as he could on sipping his pumpkin juice, and didn’t bother mentioning this strange development to anyone, because the last time he had brought this up with Ron and Hermione, they told him to go to Dumbledore, who had not so much as glanced at him since—well, since the trial.

            He talked to Ron about meeting up with Cho, Cedric, and their friends for a pickup game of Quidditch once the holidays were over, and promised Hermione he’d read the next part of the book that night.

            The last month or so had become a blur of DA meetings, detentions, schoolwork, chatting to Dobby about house elf history (“They says we wasn’t always called house elves, sir—oh look, I haves to go make lunch,”), and, of course, exams, not to mention getting banned from Quidditch for life.

            There was an anger in his chest that had solidified since that match, and it would not leave him no matter the weather, no matter how happy his friends were, no matter how much he did not want to feel this constant, heavy rage. By the end of any given day, he was seized by the desire to scream and curse and rail against his entire life, and how unfair it all was. He fantasized about flying away on his broomstick, away from Umbridge and Malfoy and the _Prophet_ and everyone else.

            But he had a rebellion to run, so Harry could not do any of that.

            Besides, he thought as he glanced around the room at all of the fierce, determined faces gazing back at him, here were all of the reasons to stay. Here were people who were willing to fight with him, who were just as angry as he was.

            “Practice over the break as much as you can,” he said, voice more steady and certain than he had felt in weeks. “Next meeting’s going to be on the week after you all return to school, alright? Don’t forget. And…and thanks, for showing up. You’ve all improved so much. Pretty soon I reckon the Death Eaters won’t stand a chance.”

            Almost everyone shook his hand on the way out, and he saw words marring skin more often than not.

            Cedric’s hair was braided this time, and he grasped Harry’s hand warmly, his own hand smooth, his grip strong. It was as though he could tell how tired and grateful and angry Harry was underneath it all, because he leaned in and said, “Sod Dumbledore, we’re with you. Every step of the way, we’re with you.”

            He left with his friends before Harry could say anything back.

            After a moment, Harry turned to see Cho whisper something to Marietta, who huffed and stalked towards the door of the Room of Requirement without looking once at Harry. She did, however, save a final glance for Cho; for a second, her stony glare changed to a look of soft, exasperated fondness before she strode out the door.

            Cho smiled tentatively at him, and Harry became very aware that it was just the two of them. Did the room seem smaller than it was before? Was there a window on the back wall? Harry blinked, and could have sworn he saw snow falling.

            “You know what’s funny? Hanukkah ends right on Christmas day this year.”

            Harry swallowed as Cho took a step closer. “Really? That’s interesting. I don’t celebrate either of them. Well, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always get loads of stuff for Dudley, and I have to set the table and take the roast out of the oven and clean up afterwards, but we don’t—I mean—it isn’t really Christmas.”

            Cho nodded and sighed, shoulders dropping. “Full offense to your relatives, but I hope they all get nothing but coal for Christmas this year. And yeah, it’s always weird when I have to celebrate Hanukkah without my parents and my grandmother and everyone. But they’ve been sending me letters and snacks, so it’s like they’re there with me, in a way. Anthony and Terry and Amarissa and Luna and some others all pitch in with me, and we make the best of it. We say the blessings and tell the story, and I know it isn’t the most important holiday, but the candles are so beautiful to look at.”

            “Yeah,” Harry said, and felt his face heat up as Cho ran a hand through her short hair.

            She took a deep breath, set her shoulders back, and rolled up her robe’s sleeves, arms toned and strong, looking like she was about to start fixing up the Shrieking Shack again. She coughed a bit before saying, “Hey, do you think--? Oh Merlin, how do I say this right? Sorry, sorry, I really didn’t rehearse any of this—“

            She giggled nervously, and Harry found himself laughing too, glad his nerves weren’t the only ones getting jumpy.

            “What’ve you been rehearsing? Is it jokes about Umbridge or something?”

            “No,” Cho shook her head, face reddening as she pressed on. “No, I was just thinking that I wanted—I wanted to thank you, for all of this. For being my friend, and for leading us all. You’re so—you know you’re amazing, right?”

            “Er,” Harry said, because he was not used to anyone looking at him like that, let alone someone like her. “I, uh, try my best? A lot of times it doesn’t feel like it.”

            “Well, you’re amazing,” Cho insisted, drawing herself up again in her certainty, and she stood at least two inches taller than him. “And I wanted to thank you, and since we won’t be seeing each other over the holidays I thought I’d give you a gift? You know, for everything you’ve been doing. And I thought—I’m being so silly, but I thought—what if I just kiss you?”

            Harry did not have time to process any of this before Cho continued, as determined now as she was in Quidditch.         

            “Look, I know it sounds daft, but I promise that this doesn’t have to mean anything, it’s really just so I can thank you, and that’s all. Well, and everyone says soulmates doing things like this is supposed to be life-changing, but I don’t think that, and I thought I’d—test it out to make sure? But mostly I want to say thanks. Are you—“ She hesitated for a long moment, glancing at him worriedly. “Are you ok with that?”

            Harry’s mouth went dry. “Um,” he started, voice suddenly high-pitched, stomach tight with fear and adrenaline and—and other things. He pretended very hard not to think about all the other times he’d imagined something like this. “Uh, sure? Yes,” he nodded rapidly, feeling like a bobble-head. “Yes, that’s fine. We’re friends, it’s not like this is a big deal, just a quick thank you, that’s all there is to it—“

            “Ok,” Cho said, looking as terrified as he did, and Harry wiped his sweaty hands on his robes as quickly as possible and adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, trying to be brave--  

            “Hey,” Cho said softly, “Hey, it’s ok. Relax.”

            Harry thought, _Easy for you to say_ , but then Cho tilted her head down and accidentally bumped his nose with hers. She met him halfway the second time, laughing at herself, and then they were kissing, so Harry promptly forgot everything he was thinking about.

            It wasn’t like the books or the movies or the songs. There weren’t any instant sparks or burning passion, there wasn’t a pressing need to cling to each other and never break apart, and neither of them glowed with some sort of new, destined light of romance.

            It was a very small moment.

            Cho’s hands were on his shoulders, and he reached up to brush her hair out of her eyes.

            For a very small moment, Harry felt less alone, and that was enough.

            They stopped almost as soon as they had started, and Cho rested her forehead against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Happy holidays, Harry,” she whispered carefully, and her eyes crinkled when she smiled gently at him.

He could try and count her freckles if he wanted. Someday, he thought, someday he would.

            Harry smiled back shakily. “Happy Hanukkah, Cho.”

            They breathed together for a second longer, and then she stepped away and left the Room of Requirement, walk brisk, head held high.

            Harry pinched himself, but there was really no need for that, because his lips still tingled.

            He knew that this wouldn’t last forever, that soon the anger would resurface and he’d feel a stranger’s emotions and he’d want to scream into the cold air and hope to be buried underneath an avalanche forever, but before that—

            Before that, Harry stayed behind to watch the snow fall, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, full of wonder and warmth and things Voldemort had never dreamed of.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot has happened, and that is why this update is delayed. Thank you all for your patience and support!!
> 
> Let me know if I've screwed anything up re: Hanukkah and laddus and such!
> 
> The title for the last bit in this chapter is taken from "No One Else," a song from Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812. The lyrics of the song don't really apply to this fic or this one bit in particular, but the feeling and atmosphere fits nicely, I think. (If you'd like to listen to it for Maximum Sappiness and Shipper Feels, here's a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7g8et_bW30)


	15. The Holidays: Ink Spots, Romanticism in the Postmodern Era, and Kerala, 1968

NINETEEN

            “Cedric? Don’t you like the meal, dear?”

            “Oh—oh yes, of course. You always make the best roasts, mum.”

            His mother glanced at him before his father chortled, “Ced, you’ve barely touched your carrots! What’ve we always said?”

            Cedric smiled distantly, though he still felt the weight of his mother’s gaze settle on him, eyes worried beyond concern, even though now she was looking at her plate of potatoes. He felt the tips of his ears burn, and that jolted him back to telling his father, “Greens make the man.”

            His father chuckled at the old family saying; he was a proud vegetarian, as was his father before him, and his father before him, while his mother ate everything except for shrimp and celery sticks, and thus did not subscribe to the belief that vegetables provided everything one needed to survive. Cedric was somewhere in between on this front, though he loathed brussel sprouts.

            He did his best to pay attention to the rest of the dinner conversation, but he found himself only catching snippets. Mum was thinking about hiring someone to write a new recipe book to promote her restaurant (“Witch’s Brew could use the publicity, we’re quite out of the way after all,”), while Dad shared all of the coworker gossip with them as he always did (“Heidi wouldn’t stop revising her paperwork, and Aziz refused to follow directions from Mulberry, though that’s understandable, the man’s a terrible manager,”), and yet a part of Cedric remained fixed on the glance Mum had given him, like she really knew what was going on. He wasn’t quite sure himself, why he had been feeling uncomfortable lately. He shook his head: No, that wasn’t right either. He’d felt this way for a while now, at least.

            He helped his dad wash the dishes and wipe the counter with flicks of his wand, concentrating on making sure none of the plates broke and that his spells cleaned every fork, as he had had trouble with that last time. It distracted him enough from focusing too much on any of the unknowable thoughts from entering his head. He used to be able to simply take a breath, and push the thoughts gently to the side, like when the neighborhood stray cat prodded his hand for attention, and he had to bat the paw away. Except—he frowned as he sat on his bed, pajamas one size too small thanks to his recent growth spurt. Except the thoughts never went away, not really. He felt—sometimes, Cedric didn’t feel quite like himself. He would be talking to one of his friends, and slowly his words would sound far away and mechanical. Or his hands would tingle while writing innumerable lines of parchment for class, and he wouldn’t notice until they were shaking. This was how he had felt at dinner, which was entirely inconvenient given the approaching holiday celebrations. He needed to be fully present while kissing his grandparents on the cheek, and reminding Auntie Mabel to stay away from the cat’s bed, as she was allergic, and while he played with his little cousins’ toy broomsticks, and—

            Cedric walked to the bathroom, splashed water onto his face, and breathed.

            He dried his face with a towel and stared at his reflection. Slowly, he twirled a strand of hair in his fingers, and smiled stiffly. He’d wanted to grow his hair out for a long time. He liked putting it up in different ways, or leaving it loose, or just being able to feel less tight in the lungs.

            Zoe had been Zachary, their first year, and she had told him in their third that maybe she was a girl all along, and ever since she was Zoe, one of his best friends, the girl who smiled at every terrible pun she made, who loved her newly shaved head, who could be as stern and imperious as Professor McGonagall, who teased him when he got too worked up over details and scheduling and cleaning his Head Boy badge just so before meetings with Professor Sprout. Zoe baked desserts with Bertie on the weekends to relieve stress, and she loved being a Chaser on the Quidditch team, and her and Imogen were both planning to be Healers, and they were the defining power couple of his year, if he did say so himself. Zoe’s gap-toothed grin was like sunlight. Once she made a decision, there was no going back, and that’s how they became friends in the first place, and he loved her for it.

             He finished washing his face, went back to his room, and kept thinking about the buzzing in his head, as if he had a headache. His father got migraines, sometimes. Maybe it was another family issue, like arthritis or being vegetarian.

            Cedric liked to get the facts, that’s all. He didn’t want to cause anyone any trouble.

            He turned to face the window and glimpsed the winter moon glowing faintly behind the clouds. He lay under the covers, and to distract himself he thought about how he liked the smell of Bertie’s nail polish, and if he’d like to try to paint his nails some time, and how Zoe or Bertie or Cho or Imogen might help him pick out colors and patterns and designs until he fell asleep.

            He woke in the early hours of the morning, before the sun surfaced over the clouds, to his mother frying eggs before heading to work while his father sent their squawking owl Ferdinand to the Ministry to take the day off to prepare the house for the holidays—the Diggory family did not do anything by halves, especially when guests were involved—and Cedric twirled his hair in his fingers again. Breathed. Wrote a letter to Zoe about asking Sprout for new Quidditch robes (the team had voted on it, had lots of new designs planned, Xavier in particular wanted more sequins), and if he’d look alright with blue nails or if another color would suit him better. He rubbed his eyes and scribbled out two other letters to Harry and Cho. Those ones were short, with mundane little details about how his owl Geillis liked to nibble his fingers, and how his pajamas really were too small, he’d have to ask for new ones for the holidays, and how he was looking forward to seeing his little cousins and his Auntie Mabel especially, since she always gave him her specially-made fruitcake with chocolate chips in them. They weren’t interesting letters, they didn’t say much, but they were factual and precise, and the ink spots on his hand reminded him that he was real.

TWENTY

            Cho was sad to put the menorah away, but it was already December 27th; Hanukkah was over, and it was better to clean up than leave things lying around, strewn about like dirty laundry. She placed their polished silver menorah carefully into the kitchen cabinet. She missed lighting the candles already. She thought about the way the warm, glowing candles had looked in the frost-tinged window, welcoming her home, and wiped her eyes. It was a silly thing to cry over, but Cho had long since accepted the fact that her tear ducts needed little justification to do anything they well wished.

            At least there were leftover latkes, and her grandmother’s kosher steamed dumplings. She laughed to herself: It was a tradition nearly as ingrained as prayers for her family to argue about what was the best latke topping. Cho was firmly in support of sour cream, as she had been since she was seven and tried it for the first time. Mum passionately advocated for applesauce for its sweetness, while Dad preferred to eat his latkes with the eggs benedict he made himself, insisting that latkes were more of a breakfast food than anything else. Her grandmother ate her latkes plain, and staunchly refused to ruin them with any sort of topping. This year had gone about as well as all of the others, which meant that they had all shouted at one another, charts were brought in, diagrams were shown, and curses were tossed about in at least three different languages, and by December 25th they had all staunchly eaten their latkes the way they liked it, stiff silence broken by the familiar guffaws of her mother, the wheezing of her father, and her grandmother’s raspy giggles, along with Cho’s own laugh, the loudest of them all.

            A very similar sort of argument would spring up at Hogwarts whenever she was hanging out with Terry or Anthony or Luna or Amarissa or other Jewish students, though none of the conversations were precisely the same. But that what was more than fine, for the most part. That’s what made it fun.

            Despite all of their debating, her entire family, from her Aunt Lin and Uncle Henry and her cousins in London, to her cousins and aunts and uncles and second cousins in Kaifeng and Hangzhou, all agreed that without question, the steamed dumplings were perfect every year. Only her Aunt Lin and Uncle Henry visited over the holidays, and even that was uncommon (they couldn’t make it this year, too busy moving to a different apartment), but her grandmother always sent the whole family her dumplings. She collected their thank you notes and displayed them proudly in the kitchen. No one threw any of them out without her express permission.

            Cho put the menorah away, and then laced up her boots and decided to go for a walk; grandmother was busy knitting another scarf, and Mum and Dad were out shopping for dinner. It was late afternoon, the sun glaring into her eyes as soon as she stepped outside, and the sky was blue for the first time in weeks. Her boots crunched in the snow, and she walked up the narrow street where she used to play hide and seek and other games with Janice and Evan and Georgie. She passed their houses and thought, for a moment, about knocking on one of their doors, and asking if they would like to make a snowman, or have hot chocolate. She kept walking instead.

            Cho loved being home. Tutshill was tiny, and the forest surrounding it was vast, ancient, and deep. A day after she returned, old Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan scolded Connor O’Malley again for picking flowers from their garden. According to them and Olivia Crenshaw, the only reputable gossip in the village, he had winked jauntily at them, flowers in hand, and went on wooing Nathan Sawyer from down the road anyway. Georgie argued with her father about something or other after church, Tina Green and her wife Mary were hosting another one of their book club meetings, Gregory Davis was ill with pneumonia, and Eliza Pendleton was leaving little gifts for everyone on their doormats to spread good cheer.

            The forest took no notice of this. The trees scattered snow in the wind whenever a breeze rattled their branches, and creaked at times like an attic during a storm, and sometimes Cho would swear that they talked to one another. Did they ever catch the chattering voices of the village? Were their voices just wisps in the air to them, too far down below to be worth paying attention to?

            Marietta would laugh at Cho’s wondering. She would say, “Don’t be silly, the trees here are entirely nonmagical. Look, I can prove it—“

            And she’d perform some spell or another, smirking. “The trees are ordinary, Cho. Or—“ and this is what Cho loved about her, that she wouldn’t ever dismiss her, not completely, just rework her ideas into her own—“Or maybe they’ve got some sort of hidden magic. Want to find out?”

            Marietta hadn’t been to the Forest of Dean. She’d never been to Tutshill, either. She lived up in Lancashire, didn’t like to travel much. Cho had been up to visit her once, in their third year. Her parents had always asked if she’d had enough to eat, and if she felt comfortable in their home, which was ridiculous, because it was impossible not to love the Edgecombe residence, what with their bright colors and constant supply of bamiyeh and other sweets, and their incredibly plush pillows in their spare guest room. Marietta had rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, which she then had to translate from English to Farsi so her parents could hear what she had said, cheeks burning with embarrassment at being found out. They had chastised her for her grumpy mumbling, but quickly laughed at themselves, and beamed profusely when Cho thanked them for everything.

            She hadn’t been to visit Marietta and her family since, and partly it was because they were both busy over the holidays and partly it was because they really enjoyed sending each other letters; it was good to take a break from one another once in a while. Cho took out Marietta’s most recent letter from her coat pocket, winter sun glaring down on the words, and reread:

            _Cho,_

_I hope you had a fun Hanukkah._

_Here is a poem I wrote, and thought you might like:_

_Spring is as old as Winter and Fall and Summer:_

_The plants grow from ancient soil,_

_Birds sing love songs that have shimmered in the air long before a lute string,_

_And the trees add more rings ‘round their bark with every melting of the snow._

_Why, then, do we say, “spring chicken?”_

_Spring is an old rooster, a grandfather who needs to be flattered if you are to glimpse his garden._

_-M. E._

            Cho giggled and tucked the letter back into her jacket pocket, pausing at the edge of the forest.

            She’d sent her reply yesterday ( _Don’t compare my favorite season to a rooster, if you please; anyway, here is a poem about trees_ ), and felt restless waiting for a response. It wasn’t exactly frustrating: she didn’t mind the gap in their correspondences, not really. It kept up the suspense. It’s just—it’s just that Cho missed her, sometimes, like she missed playing hide and seek with Georgie and Evan and Janice, or like she missed Hanukkah already.

            Cho collected ticket stubs from every Quidditch match she’d ever been to. She saved all of her friends’ Happy Birthday cards from over the years. She wasn’t one to dwell on things, not too much, but when her friends all lived somewhere else, and no one else in Tutshill celebrated Hanukkah or would want to talk about the possible sentience of plants or discuss how the Alchemy course at Hogwarts borrowed extensively from Chinese wizards, Cho had to hold on to what she had. The space between her and her friends seemed particularly wide at moments like this, as though something more than just geography was separating them. To have them not be here to explore the woods with her felt like a travesty, a very dramatic cosmic injustice, even though all it amounted to was long walks by herself, wishing that someone else’s coat brushed against hers.

            At least she’d be back to school soon.

            Cho frowned: It’d be so good to see her friends, but she’d also appreciated how her hand didn’t sting as much as it had been. _I shall not ask questions,_ the letters read, so Cho kept asking them.

            She wasn’t the best at keeping most secrets. Her family knew about Harry and Cedric, and teased her constantly. Mum would say, “What sort of wedding invitations would you like?” Dad would catch her eye and grin in a devious way, and grandmother would fuss, muttering, “You are truly blessed to have them like you even after all your lovely hair is gone—joking, dear,” so Cho didn’t bring up the topic too much unless absolutely necessary. They knew about the DA, and they were worried for her, but they no longer had the _Prophet_ mailed to them, so it was a start.

            They didn’t know about the scars on her hand.

            Cho shivered as a chilly breeze picked up, but she didn’t move either, just stood on the dirt road leading into the woods.

            Marietta was good at keeping secrets. She didn’t tell her family about the DA, or Umbridge, or much about sixth year at all. Her parents could be a bit—well, almost smothering in how much they wanted to please everyone, and keep up appearances—they were lovely, just not good in a crisis--

            Cho sighed.

            Thinking about Marietta and Hanukkah and the DA led her to thinking about Harry, and the night before break, and how the moon had shown from her window –

            Cho shook her head, determined not to think about the kiss. She read Marietta’s letter again, and whispered to the trees, “Good afternoon,” for good measure. Luna would appreciate it, anyway, and Marietta would smile, and Michael would laugh along with her.

            When she was right outside the door, hand about to push it open, she heard Mum flipping through the channels on the TV while Dad was working through his architectural spells to make sure he got them right. Grandmother was cursing her knitting needles from her seat in the kitchen, and Cho tried not to smile too stiffly as the words in her hand ached from the cold.

            Cho’s lips tingled with memory. She supposed the kiss was the second secret she was going to have to keep.

            Reading soulmate romances was comforting. _Love Riot_ and _Hands of Fate_ were favorites of hers, while Marietta preferred _Codified Confessions_ and _Destiny’s Gamble._ Except it was one thing to daydream about kissing your soulmate, and it was another thing to actually do it. It had been utterly ordinary, nothing like the books, but she had gone to sleep that night feeling warm and calm in a way she hadn’t felt in a long while.

            She said a hurried hello to her family and went upstairs to read Cedric and Harry’s letters again. Cedric’s talked about his cousins and his owl and not much else, and Harry wrote in short, clipped sentences that were mostly updates on how Mr. Weasley was doing.

            Cho loved Tutshill, but sometimes it felt particularly small, and the forest would seem enormous, and Cho wanted to talk to somebody about all of this. She went to sleep early instead.

 TWENTY-ONE

            Mr. Weasely got better. He kept saying that he was so lucky, that if it hadn’t been for Harry he probably wouldn’t have made it.

            Harry’s dreams didn’t stop.

            He sat in the room he shared with Ron a lot of the time, and read more of _Magic Around the World: A Comprehensive Study in South Asia._ He was almost done with it; there were only three chapters left, one titled “The Diaspora,” another called, “The Caste System and Hierarchical Magical Practices,” and finally, “Contemporary Magic: Neocolonialism, Globalization, and What the Future Holds.” He had gotten into the habit of only going downstairs for meals, or if someone needed help with chores, so reading was a good excuse to use. He kept going over one sentence in particular:

            _It is very difficult to be in two places at once, but for many South Asians in many parts of the world, the implication is a constant presence, more than a suggestion; it is expected that they perform the impossible, and bridge the multiple realities of their lives with perfect ease, and with silent grace._

            The photograph Mrs. Figg had mentioned in her previous letter arrived just as she had promised.

            It was black-and-white, yellowed with age, soft and slightly crinkled from the journey. It took Harry a few minutes to spot his father in the small crowd. He was the round, stout child in the front, beaming with missing teeth, and his hair was wild and reached just past his ears. What must be his father’s parents were standing behind him. The woman was dressed in a traditional sari, hair long and curly. She was caught mid-laugh, waving her hand at something someone must have said. Despite the graininess of the photograph, her joy was unmistakable. The man, slightly taller than her, dressed in a tailored suit, hair thick and combed to one side, was smiling very slightly, mustache barely twitching, though his eyes crinkled. Beside them were what might have been their own parents, gray-and-silver-haired, standing tall and proper. The older man wore a checkered suit, and had Harry’s wobbly knees, while the older woman had a cane, and wore large, rose-tinted sunglasses. Their expressions were more reserved, though it looked as though they were trying not to laugh. There were some decorative plants in the photograph, and Harry didn’t know what kind they were. The back of the photograph had an inscription in faded ink, handwriting a swooping and scribbled sort of script: _The Poduval, or Potter, Family. Kerala, 1968._

Harry moved his thumb over each face in the photograph before he went to sleep, as a kind of good luck charm, a reaching out to people who should not be strangers to him.

            To distract himself from Mr. Weasley’s gratitude and everyone else’s concerned glances and worried hands on his shoulder, he wondered what his life might have been like if his last name had been Poduval, and if he had lived in Kerala, and if he hadn’t been The Boy Who Lived. Voldemort was only a threat in England, after all.

            He was behind in _A Unicorn in Zimbabwe, and Other Stories,_ which frustrated Hermione, but he did manage to read the story called, “Tilly and the Great Big Boat: A House-Elf’s Journey to Barbados,” which provided a note at the end on the historical accuracy of the tale, and had been rather easy and darkly funny to read. In the story, Tilly the house-elf had become tentative friends with her English master’s new slave, whose Christian name was Ruth but was actually named Zwena. The master, who at the best of times was merely called, “the merchant,” or, “the owner,” had acquired Zwena from one of his business partners as part of a bargain they had struck. In the beginning, Zwena had been frightened by Tilly, and the same could be said of the elf, who had at first expected to serve the other human as well as her master. Despite initial miscommunication and confusion, the two formed a bond over the labor they were forced to perform, and eventually schemed against the Englishman. Zwena convinced the man, who had gotten quite drunk, to give Tilly his coat so she could hang it up. Seeing as the coat contained their master’s latest gambling winnings, and that it had been freely given to the elf, both Tilly and Zwena snuck out of the house, caught the next boat out of Trinidad, and sailed to Barbados, where Zwena had been born. They split the rather massive amount of gambling money and lived as successful business partners of a small hotel.

            Harry had only skimmed the historical notes, but Hermione had made notes and underlined certain passages in the brief paragraph for further research. Mostly he had laughed at how Zwena and Tilly had given the Englishman sores, which was a very funny instance involving plants and house-elf magic and a discussion about the English love of tea time.

            When Harry wasn’t reading, he lay in bed and didn’t change out of his clothes from the day before and felt like there was constant static in the back of his mind.

            It was hard to focus on his own thoughts when Voldemort’s kept hissing into his head.

            They visited St. Mungo’s. Hermione was still flustered by Lockhart, despite her protests. Neville’s grandmother’s frizzy silver hair was hidden underneath her enormous hat, large ruby rings hung from her crooked fingers, her eyes were sharp and penetrating, and she didn’t notice Neville pocket his mother’s wrapper. His hand shook. He kept his eyes on the floor.

            “Thanks mum,” he had mumbled, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, and Harry remembered that Alice Longbottom had had dreadlocks in her picture with the rest of the Order, too.

            Cedric sent two letters, Cho sent three. Harry sent a lot of short ones to them. He couldn’t think of anything to say most of the time, so he wrote about how everyone else was doing.

            He didn’t get a good night’s sleep until it was after dinner, three days until they had to go back to school, and Ginny barged into his and Ron’s room. Ron was busy talking with Hermione about homework and house elf rights and how multiple Death Eaters had escaped from Azkaban, so Harry hadn’t expected anyone to come into the room, let alone Ginny.

            She looked at him for a moment, then said, “Harry, are you alright?”

            Harry raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

            Ginny rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m just—we’re all worried about you, you know.”

            “Yeah, but—“

            “But what?”

            Harry hated the challenging look in her gaze, because he couldn’t refuse to answer. “I don’t want any of you to—to be—what if I’m not myself? What if--? ”

            “What if you’re possessed?”

            Harry stared down at his slippers. “…Yeah.”

            Ginny sat on the bed with him, careful not to get too close. “Harry—“

            A wave of irritation swept over him. “Don’t—you don’t know what it’s like, to feel like—“

            “Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Ginny snapped, voice no longer quiet, eyes blazing. “Did you forget that I was possessed by V—by Voldemort for most of my second year?”

            Harry’s face burned.

            “Thought so,” she said, deceptively calm again. “I know what it’s like. I lived through it for months. I still—it’s not a bloody fun time. If you want to talk about it, let’s talk about it, alright?”

            “Ok,” Harry answered. “Ok.”

            So Ginny explained how she had felt like she was in a fog, or that she saw herself from outside her own body, or blacked out and didn’t remember anything. She talked about the whispers in her ears, the way she would feel clammy and cold and hollow.

            Harry awkwardly offered tissues, and she blew her nose and kept talking despite the thickness in her voice.

            “So,” she finished, fixing her ponytail. “Does it sound like you’ve been possessed?”

            “I don’t think so,” Harry said slowly, an enormous sense of relief settling in the pit of his stomach. “I still—It’s still a pain in the arse.”          

            Ginny laughed. “Don’t I know it. Listen, Luna and Neville and Nora and a lot of my other friends…they’ve helped. It can be good to talk about it.”

            Harry snorted.

            “No, seriously. I thought it was bullocks too, but—I don’t know. It helped me. Think about it.”

            Harry looked at Ginny, and saw some of his fears reflected back at him. “Ok.”

            She gave him a lopsided smile, punched his shoulder, and said, “G’night, Harry.”

            Harry felt himself smile. “’Night, Ginny.”

            She shut the main light off and closed the door behind her.

            Harry’s reading lamp was the only light in the room. By the sound of Ron and Hermione’s debating, neither of them was going to finish soon.

            He took out the photograph Mrs. Figg had given him from underneath his pillow. Traced the smiling people with his fingers. He was careful not to smudge the ink on the back.

            Harry may not be possessed, but his palms still felt clammy, and the noise in the back of his head had returned, faint whispers and strange emotions creeping through his bones.

            He placed the photograph next to him, and read a few lines of the next short story. His eyes skimmed the title—“Banshee in the Bush: Australia Haunted”—and he tried to read, to focus on the words: _No one thought much of the reports of a woman’s screams erupting from the outback. Such an occurrence, while infrequent, was not uncommon, and most of the prisoners went about their days as usual. Then the first body was found. Reports suggested—_

            Harry closed the book and placed it on the desk. He couldn’t stop thinking about that line in Dr. Bhat’s book-- _it is expected that they perform the impossible, and bridge the multiple realities of their lives with perfect ease, and with silent grace_ —it kept repeating and repeating in his head, along with the static and the hissing of the basilisk—he was the snake, he had almost killed Mr. Weasley, if hadn’t been possessed—if he wasn’t being possessed, then what was wrong, why was he like this--?

            Harry held tight to the photograph. Breathed.

            _Perfect ease._

            _Silent grace._

            He didn’t know his grandparents’ names. He didn’t know where Kerala was. He didn’t know anything about his family beyond dead parents, and Voldemort killing them, and Dumbledore placing him on Privet Drive, and the Dursleys shoving him into the cupboard under the stairs.

            _Perfect ease._

            _Silent grace._

            Harry turned off the light, tucked the photograph underneath his pillow, and lay alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i know that it's been FOREVER since i last updated. i won't bore you with excuses, just the same old stuff: school is busy, life is busy, etc. i wanted to make sure that when i got around to writing this that i did it justice. 
> 
> AND you all get TWO CHAPTERS because i wanted to end the update with a bang, of sorts.
> 
> while i hope that i did both of these chapters justice, please let me know if i fucked anything up, and i will fix it ASAP. there's a lot of stuff here that i don't experience, and i want to make sure that i'm staying in my lane and writing a decent fanfic. 
> 
> ALSO, if you're interested in how wizarding schools might function in indian wizarding society, here's a really cool post about that, from people who are far better qualified than i am to talk about this. plus it's just really interesting and well-thought-out. Link: http://parineetiofrp.tumblr.com/post/134991015468/flylikeatornado-astarreborn-flylikeatornado
> 
> finally: no matter how long it takes me to write this fic, i AM committed to finishing it! so i am 100% going to work on this until the end. thank you all for your patience, your encouragement, and for reading this fic. :)


	16. Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, Draco Malfoy, Private Eye: Part 4, Trouble in Paradise, and Interlude #5

TWENTY-TWO

         “Alright, but if you could do anything to Umbridge’s cat portraits, what would you do?”

         “Ron, please, we’ve talked about this already—“    

         “I’d make them attack her and give her rabies or I’d turn them into hairless dogs—“

         “Yes, Harry, we know, and I would of course would destroy every last portrait, preferably with fire—“

         “Says the girl who coos over _Crookshanks_ , of all things—“

         “Says the boy who cried over Scabbers.”

         “I did not—“

         “Ron, please, listen to yourself—“   

         “At least I don’t act like that—that menace of an animal is the most beautiful creature in the entire world—“

         “Crookshanks is lovely, just because _you_ can’t see—“

         “You guys read that latest Educational Decree a while back, yeah?”

         “What--? Oh yes, the one about teachers not allowed to give information outside of lessons. That awful woman, trying to infiltrate every aspect of Hogwarts.”

         “Is that Decree of Bullshit about your—what, your lessons with Snape?”

         “Probably.”

         “You’d think people would just let you be for a year.”

          Harry smirked back at Ron. “You’d think.”

          Hermione rolled her eyes, but a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. “How was your new Occlumency lesson with Snape, anyway? Did it help at all?”

          She asked it casually, but as always there was a note of hope underneath the nonchalance.

          Harry shrugged, trying not to think about feeling Voldemort’s happiness and other emotions more frequently and Snape skulking through his memories, seeing Dudley shove him into the snow when the other neighborhood kids were having a snowball fight, dripping wet, so cold, everyone laughed—or that time at primary school, when people kept poking his scar—Snape had felt Harry blush when Cho and Cedric danced at the Yule Ball—

         “It went alright,” Harry said. “Same as usual, just have to practice more.”

          Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I’m glad you can finally start getting V-Voldemort out of your head, even if it’s Snape doing the lessons.”

          “Yeah,” Harry muttered, and Ron was starting to look at him with worried curiosity, so he cleared his throat and managed, “Cedric and Cho want to hang out at Hogsmeade or something, d’you want to come—?”

         Hermione sent him an infuriatingly smug look. “Oh no, you three can go on without me. I have Charms homework to finish and house-elf history to look up anyway—“

        “Yeah,” Ron grinned, “We couldn’t possibly interrupt your…outing….on this lovely Valentine’s Day.”

        Harry felt his palms go clammy. “It’s not what you think—“

        “Right, right, it’s the day that works best for you all, but if you ask me—“

        “Don’t be surprised if they offer you chocolates, and, er, public displays of the most—the most excellent friendship, that’s it—“

        “Sod off, you two,” Harry grinned, and even as Hermione reminded him about their interview with Skeeter that afternoon, he found himself laughing, and their teasing followed him all the way to the entrance of Hogsmeade, and made him forget, for a moment, that Snape could easily suspect exactly who his soulmates were.

         He’d told them about it, after his second Occlumency lesson, and while Cedric and Cho were worried, they didn’t panic, which was a relief. Snape, after all, did not see any memory relating to the tattooed names on his wrists, or anything beyond Harry feeling a bit smitten, that’s all.

         (He didn’t tell them about that last part, understandably.)

         “Harry!”

          With no time to prepare himself, Harry found himself being hugged rather bracingly by one very enthusiastic Cho Chang.

          After a long moment, in which he had no idea what to do with his arms and patted her back awkwardly, she let go, and seeing his face, said, “Oh Merlin, I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked—“

         “It’s ok,” Harry heard himself say. She smelled like moldy old books and something floral. It shouldn’t have been a pleasant combination of scents, but it was.      

         “—Harry--?”

         “Oh,” he said, and snapped himself out of his daze. “Sorry, yeah, hullo Cedric.”

         They shook hands after Cho had hugged Cedric. Harry blinked and blurted out, “I like your nails.”

        “Ah,” Cedric said, voice slightly higher than usual. “Yes, well, my mates helped me out, thought it might be nice—“

        “It’s a lovely shade of blue,” Cho commented, “Like robin eggs.”

        “Er, yes, that,” Cedric managed, smile twitching across his face. “It was a fun thing to do.”

        “Marietta doesn’t like getting her nails painted and neither does Padma, so I just do it with Luna and Amarissa and Mo and other people. Weekend fun, you kmow.”

        “Right,” Cedric said, and Harry noticed that his shoulders loosened a bit. “Bertie and Zoe and Xavier did it with me, it was—we kept getting off-track, talking about Quidditch and things—“

        “Speaking of getting off-track,” Harry interrupted, because he felt the time tick ever closer to his meeting with Rita Skeeter. “Where do you want to go? It’s too cold for the Shrieking Shack today—“

        “Yeah, it is,” Cho said, suddenly speaking very fast. “So I was—ok, this is going to sound ridiculous, but I love this one place, they have such nice tea, except it’s—it’s very, er—well, you’ll see. I—we’re friends having a grand old time. Good friends.”

       “…Yes,” Cedric responded, trying and failing not to laugh. “Lead the way, I’ve got no plans in mind.”

       “As long as I can duck out around one o’clock I’m fine.”

       “Right,” Cho said, head held high despite her blush. “Right, let’s do this.”

       Thus, all three of them ended up inside the cramped, aggressively magenta creation that was Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop.

       Harry kept sneezing on account of the overpowering waft of rose-scented perfume that clogged the entire premise. He saw Cedric fix his hair as one of the many cherub-like figures sprinkled something like pink glitter onto the top of his head.

       The cherubs, upon closer inspection (one had just fluttered by his shoulder), were made of gold, and despite their permanently grinning faces and chubby cheeks, they didn’t look very childlike. Perhaps it was because their arrows looked so sharp.

       A harried-looking woman nearly shoved them into their own little corner, and went to attend to one of the many couples waiting to be seated at this fine establishment.

       Harry settled in his seat, nearly sneezed again, and then turned his head. “Cho, did you say something?”

       “Yes,” she almost shouted back above the din of tables and chairs squealing into place, and silverware clinking against china, and what felt like hundreds of voices chattering at once. “Yes, I just wanted to apologize, it’s—Madam Puddifoot’s usually isn’t this busy, but it’s quite lovely, isn’t it?”

       Harry stared. She wasn’t joking. She hadn’t even brushed the glitter out of her hair, and a hopeful half-smile lingered on her face.

       “Er,” Harry coughed, then spoke louder. “It’s—well, it’s very pink.”

       “I actually don’t mind these little cherubs,” Cedric said absently, eyes wandering to one of the little figures pouring Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell a cup of tea. “They’re polite enough. And—oh, look, the mugs have little flowers on them.”

        Sure enough, Harry glanced down and saw that his own mug was painted with yet more roses. Cho beamed at Cedric, who smiled back, and Harry could not believe that this was their idea of a fun time—

       “Anything to drink?”

        Cho ordered from their surprisingly dignified, reserved waitress first, confidently stating, “I’ll have the usual, thank you.”

        Cedric and Harry glanced at each other before saying, “We’ll have the same thing,” though for different reasons: Cedric clearly wanted to see if the tea was as good as Cho claimed, and Harry had no idea what to order at a place like this.

       The waitress bowed her head politely with a grin spread across her face, and soon departed with the efficiency and subtle grace of a dancer.

       “Is the wait staff trained in acrobatics or something?” Cedric asked, scrunching his eyebrows together in a way that made Harry fight down a smile. “She just ducked under another waiter’s armful of dishes like it was nothing.”

       “Oh, no, not all of the staff is like that,” Cho chimed in, eagerly talking with her hands. “That’s Valerie, she works here part-time and takes dance classes on the weekends, wants to be a professional ballerina some day. Pretty sure she’s half-Veela? Haven’t asked her about it yet.”

       Cedric nodded, impressed. “How’d you find all this out?”

       “Well,” Cho said, nearly knocking her empty teacup over with a slightly nervous flick of her wrist. “I started coming here with Marietta actually, we both thought it’d be an inspirational environment, you know, with, um, all of the romances we’ve read and everything. She’d spotted Madam Puddifoot’s in our third year, when we could go to Hogsmeade for the first time, and I remember she just sort of dragged me in—‘Cho, _this_ is the place to write a novel in,’—and now we go here around once a week, to talk about what we’ve read and all sorts of writing stuff and we go through drafts—her drafts, mostly. I like poetry, can’t write a book to save my life—I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry, I’m just—“

       “It’s fine,” Cedric said in his smooth, almost rumbling voice, pushing a lock of glittering hair behind his ear. “I write in journals, have since I was a kid—“

       “Oh, yes, you mentioned that in one of your letters—“

       “Yeah, I did. Almost forgot about that. So what kind of poetry d’you like to write?”

        Harry could’ve sworn Cho was blushing, and he felt his own ears burn in solidarity.

        “Well, I like—it’s—sometimes I try to write sonnets, but I’m not the best at rhyming things. So I mostly write short little poems about the woods by my house, or the streets in Kaifeng or my great-uncle’s house in Hangzhou, or poems to the people in the books I’ve read.” She paused, smiling to herself, and added, “Marietta likes to try all sorts of styles of writing, but she’s terrible at coming up with titles, and that’s my favorite thing to do, so it’s a good set-up. She asks a lot of questions in her work, if she has a common theme, I suppose. Michael draws, mostly; sometimes he comes here with us and does little sketches of the teacups, or the staff, or anything, really. He’s made comics about this place, they’re very funny. Oh, and yes, that’s how we started talking to Valerie. He was sketching her for figure drawing practice, and she gave us our tea and happened to glance over, and she didn’t stop thanking him, she was just so pleased. She asked if he’d draw her as a dancer, so he did, took him weeks, but she has it framed by a bunch of other things customers have made for this place.”

          “That’s so excellent,” Cedric was saying, and then Valerie the waitress swept in as if on cue, placing a plate of biscuits on their small table while an attending cherub poured tea into their cups. Harry tried not to swat the arrow away as it neared his face.

          “Thanks Val,” Cho said, already reaching for the sugar.

           Valerie winked back. “Anything for my favorite regular and her…companions…?”

           “Yes, yes, they’re my good friends Harry and Cedric! Emphasis on the friend part.”

           “Of course,” Valerie drawled as she placed the cream next to the biscuits. “How could I assume anything different at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. On Valentine’s Day.”

            Harry almost choked on his tea from laughter while Cho vehemently spluttered, “Don’t assume such—such ridiculous things—“

          “’M just teasing,” Val grinned, shaking her head, afro bouncing, which scattered yet more pink glitter into the air. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

          “’Course,” Cho said, and with that Valerie glided off to serve other tables.

            Cedric poured cream into his tea until it was just about to overflow, stirring it in carefully to make sure nothing spilled over. Cho put a few spoonfuls of sugar into her tea while Harry put a drop or two of cream and half a spoonful of sugar into his cup. They drank their tea in companionable silence, or at least as quietly as they could, considering that everyone was packed so closely together that Harry almost hit against another person’s chair when he tried to scoot back slightly.

            This, he thought, was certainly not his idea of a day out, and he couldn’t imagine coming in here to write, or draw, or do anything but inhale the noxious scent of fake flowers and listen to gold cherubs giggling and couples cooing at each other. He glanced down again; even the doilies were designed with little hearts.

            He didn’t say much; his head was starting to hurt on account of all the noise, and that made him think of Snape and Voldemort and his future detentions with Umbridge. Cho and Cedric chatted amicably, swapping stories about their little cousins, and Harry didn’t want to talk about the Dursleys, so what he said instead was, “One time over the summer I helped Mrs. Figg find her missing cats,” and then they were all talking like it was the most natural thing in the world. Cho and Cedric were good listeners, like Hermione and Ron were, when they needed to be.

            Still, he was impatient to excuse himself from Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, standing up as carefully as he could whilst maneuvering out of the corner.

            “Good luck with the interview,” Cedric said bracingly, patting his arm. “Let me know how it goes actually, I might want to write something for…whatever comes out of this.”

            “Yeah, sure, I’ll let you know at the next DA meeting.”

            Cho finished sipping her tea and reminded him about saying hi to Luna for her before gently taking his hand in hers. It wasn’t sudden this time, nor was it entirely unwelcome. She looked at him and smiled, and despite the florid catastrophe surrounding them, Harry was reminded forcibly of the night before winter break, and how her hands had rested on his shoulders when they had kissed.

            “Bye, Harry,” Cho said, and let go of his hand after holding it a second too long. Cedric looked back and forth between them with raised eyebrows, and Harry exited the teashop as fast as he could, stumbling as he went.

            It was a relief to be able to breathe the cold, wet air of winter again, and Harry wiped the residual glitter off of his sweater. He didn’t want Rita Skeeter to get any ideas about what he’d been up to, or whom he’d been with.

            Hermione and Luna greeted him in the Three Broomsticks, a united front for once, and despite the band of pixies still fluttering around in his stomach, he answered Skeeter’s pointed questions with as much accuracy as he could. It was good that he hadn’t talked much at Madam Puddifoot’s; by the time the interview was over, his throat was sore, his mouth was dry, and his voice was hoarse and mumbling. Hermione had squeezed his hand encouragingly, and had looked utterly, serenely satisfied as Skeeter kept draining her glasses of Firewhiskey and as Luna said, “Daddy’s going to love this, it’ll definitely boost sales. Really, we have so much to thank you for, Rita.”

            Harry felt a weight slowly lifting off his shoulders, and oddly enough, he had Madam Puddifoot’s and _The Quibbler_ to thank for that. Ginny had told him that talking helped, and for the first time, Harry wanted to believe her.

TWENTY-THREE

            Professor Umbridge smiled broadly at the Inquisitorial Squad, showing all of her perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, and Draco grinned right back.

            It was a good excuse to get out of class, at any rate. He was getting bored with Professor Binns’ endless droning, and McGonagall’s pointless nagging, and that old duffer Sprout’s ineptitude, and thank Merlin that oaf Hagrid was being supervised. The other professors were all deficient in one way or another, though in more mundane ways that spoke to Dumbledore’s general lack of leadership and integrity. Hogwarts, his parents told him, hadn’t always been like this. Before that old dodder had become Headmaster, it had been an institution of unbiased and straightforward instruction, a bastion of academic learning, a place where the best and brightest of Britain’s wizards gathered to succeed.

            Draco polished his Inquisitorial Squad until it shined, and he practiced standing tall in the mirror, imagining all of the other students looking away if he so much as spared them a glance. Within a week, he didn’t have to imagine it.

            He had to admit, it was especially fun to dock points from Potter and his pack of wannabe upstarts. Gathering intelligence, slowly but surely shaping Hogwarts into the institution it was meant to be, all while scoring loads of points to Slytherin; Draco was feeling quite proud of himself, truth be told.

            There were obstacles to be overcome, of course, as it was in any hero’s journey. The house-elves, previously sniveling, writhing, wretched things perfectly willing to do as wizards pleased, were strangely unable to follow the Inquisitorial Squad’s orders, and could not locate the meeting place of Potter’s measly batch of followers.

            “Oh yes, Mr. Malfoy sir, we have been looking,” his old elf Dobby promised after getting soundly whacked with Draco’s shoe. “We has been most—most diligent in our search.”

            Even Winky didn’t tell them anything useful, and while Umbridge blamed it on the elf’s drinking, Malfoy was sure that she wasn’t nearly as drunk as she seemed to be. He had glanced back at her, once their little talk had ended, and she had gone from a tottering mess to plucking the empty bottle of Butterbeer off the floor and striding back to the kitchens, ears perked up in a way they’d never been before.

            Another time, as Draco and Marcus Flint had split up down separate corridors to make sure other students weren’t skipping class or breaking any of the Educational Decrees or preventing Slytherin from winning the House Cup, Draco could have sworn that he had heard a house-elf arguing with a student.

            Striding down the long passageway as quickly as he could, he turned the corner and immediately plastered himself against the side of the wall, because Granger was speaking quickly to a wizened old elf in a hushed whisper:

            “Yes, Fitzherbert, we can’t thank you enough—“

            The ancient house-elf squinted up at her. Draco snorted: Was it really called _Fitzherbert_? What a ridiculous notion. House-elves never had a wizard’s names, they didn’t warrant one. “We expects you to keep your word, Granger. We expects you to be better.”

            “Of course,” Granger swore, “A promise is a promise,” and stuck out her hand.

            The elf stared. Draco couldn’t quite tell from the shadows, but it appeared to be a female. “What’s this?”

            Her guttural voice, so severe a moment before, wavered slightly.     

            The Mudblood kept her hand outstretched. “From—from what I understand…I’ve been reading _House-Elves, a History_ —“

            The elf snorted. Draco resisted scoffing at such flagrant disregard. “Bagshot gots it all wrong, Granger, all wrong—“

            “I know that,” Granger interrupted, looking as peeved as she did in Potions when Professor Snape didn’t deign to listen to her tangential ramblings. “I’ve read the criticisms of the book too, including _In Their Own Words: House-Elf Literacy and Resistance_ which, if I understood correctly, you helped to write—“

            “Helps, oh yes, I helps, and they don’t puts my name on the front of it, no they don’t—“

            “Well, they were fools, and bigots, and liars,” Granger hissed, refusing to take her hand away. “If you and the other elves keeping helping us, we won’t forget it. Hogwarts won’t forget it. C’mon, Fitzherbert, you know what a handshake signifies.”

            “Binding,” the old elf muttered, looking away, face creased. “Our magic and yours, sealed. Likes before.”

            After a few seconds in which Draco discreetly checked his polished silver watch and wondered when this drivel was going to end, the female elf took the Mudblood’s hand.

            Nothing happened.

            Draco snickered to himself—classic house-elf magic, utterly incapable of doing any real spells—when the elf’s ears pricked up, and she snarled, “ _I hear you_.”

            With a snap of her fingers, the elf vanished, and Draco felt a shock of pain run along his spine, and Granger whirled around, meeting his eyes with surprise, then anger.

            Draco sauntered casually towards her, the petty house-elf curse already fading. “Well, well,” he drawled, pitching his voice down; that had caused a number of First-Years to tremble in their robes. “What do we have here?”

          Granger rolled her eyes. “If you must know, I was—I was planning our next SPEW meeting.”

          Draco laughed. “What the bloody hell—“

         “The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare,” the Mudblood snapped, eyes flashing. Her blustering indignation was almost precious, like a child who didn’t get another piece of candy after dinner. “We work for house-elf rights right here at Hogwarts—“

         Draco waved his hand. “And has this…organization been approved by Educational Decree Number—oh, what was it, there really have been so many—“

         “N-no,” Granger stuttered, and suddenly she glanced down guiltily at her shoes. “No, we don’t, I—I suppose we never got permission from Professor Umbridge.”

         “In which case…” Draco smirked, making sure that his badge flashed in the early evening light. “Thirty points from Gryffindor.”

         Granger stiffened, and kept her head curiously bowed. “But—“

         “No buts,” Draco said, and couldn’t resist a bit of finger-wagging. It might be a bit silly, but it was just so fun to do. Nott and Pansy had laughed with him about it the night before until they couldn’t breathe, tears in their eyes. A smile twitched across his face at the memory. “Thirty points off, or I go directly to Professor Umbridge.”

         The girl sagged, and brushed her frizzy hair out of her eyes. “Alright, Malfoy. You can have those points. May I please leave? I have Charms to work on.”

         “I suppose,” Draco grinned, feeling a surge of triumph at the helpless look in her eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”

         “Yes,” Granger said, and, still ducking her head, trudged past him. Draco blinked—was that a hint of a smile on her face?—before strolling away to meet up with Flint, feeling truly pleased with himself for the first time in a while.

         That was one of many victories, no matter what Pansy or Flint or Nott said (“You wasted time with a Mudblood and an elf, Draco, don’t forget the mission,”). After that, Draco saw Weasal’s face burn every time someone sang, “Weasley Is Our King,” under their breath, and Longbottom curl his chubby hands into fists whenever someone grabbed at his hair, and so many other students flinch away if they spotted the badge on Draco’s robes. And, as icing on the cake, Draco and his friends made sure that every class was being monitored and properly supervised by the High Inquisitor and her select appointees, so they got less homework to do as a special reward.

          Really, they were doing the school a favor when Trelawney got sacked. Even a filthy centaur could occupy students’ time better than that batty hag.

         “Draco,” Pansy said one night, after they had finished studying for a Transfiguration quiz. “Don’t get too smug. It can’t be this easy.”

         “Why not? They’re all bloody idiots, we know that—“

         “Watch yourself. That’s all I’m saying. Umbridge is a Ministry official, not—she’s not like your father, or my uncle. She’s not doing this for you.”

         “I know that,” Draco protested, though now the Cauldron Cake the High Inquisitor had given the most effective members of the Inquisitorial Squad settled heavily in his stomach. “Merlin knows she’ll run things better than Dumbledore.”

          Pansy shook her head, and before Draco could retort, she said, “Let’s chat with the mermaids, alright? We haven’t done that in a while, and I could use a break.”

          So they talked to the mermaids about the latest rumors spreading around the lake and color-coded homework together and teased Crabbe and Goyle and it was ordinary, yes, just regular school days, but Draco could feel himself becoming more sure of himself, more certain—this is what he was meant to do—

          When that waifish Edgecombe girl told them what she knew, when he caught Potter running away from his club’s meeting while Dobby the house-elf scampered out of reach, when Draco watched Potter fall hard on his wrists, skidding across the stone floor, glasses askew, and he looked—

           Potter stood, blood on his scraped chin, and adjusted his glasses, breathing heavily.

           Draco stepped into his line of sight, and he couldn’t keep the smirk off of his face when the other boy spotted him. “Potter,” he said, a speech already half-formed in his mind, “I’ve found you out at last—“

          “That will be enough,” Umbridge said with relish, looking more gleeful than he had ever seen her, eyes glittering in the dim light of the corridor. “Good work, excellent work, Draco, but we’ll take him from here.”

           Draco turned back to Potter, and for a moment, he saw the other boy’s face close in on itself; his glare hardened into something unnaturally blank, his shoulders dropped, and he didn’t bother wiping the blood off of his chin. Draco almost offered him a handkerchief before remembering his duties, and instead marched away from the defeated Boy Who Lived behind him. Draco didn’t regret it, not at all. Still. He found himself with more questions than answers, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

TWENTY-FOUR

            He was going deeper and deeper into the Department of Mysteries every night now.

            Hermione kept asking him if he was practicing Occlumeny, and he lied. He was trying his best not to feel anything at all, now that Dumbledore had disappeared, but it was difficult to concentrate on keeping every emotion in check when every professor kept piling on assignments and asking him questions and encouraging them all to, “achieve in the face of adversity.”

            Harry kept his head down, too tired to acknowledge the way the new Headmisterss’s eyes still lingered on his wrist, a silent, constant threat, like she did with other students with easy-to-spot soulmates marks, or when students asked him about what had happened with Dumbledore. His days were filled with schoolwork, and his nights consisted of him unlocking more and more doors, violent anticipation seizing him, and the feeling of wanting to hurt Dumbledore in his office lingered long after the man himself was gone, the overpowering sensation settling into his subconscious like a never-ending whisper of vicious suggestion.

            He was almost sleep-deprived enough to forget about his Occlumency lesson with Snape in the evening. The day was a haze of struggling to stay awake long enough to answer professors’ questions, absently scribbling down all of the work he had to do, and doing his best not to imagine putting his hands around Dumbledore’s throat, or lunging at Mr. Weasely, or—

            “Harry? D’you know what we have to do for Binns?”

            He sighed, pushing his picked-apart plate away from him. “Yeah, I think it’s…something about how we have to read about the…Peasant Revolt and how wizards helped or hindered the cause, I dunno, it’s just—it’s a lot of pages to read in the book. 220-269, or something.”

            Ron groaned, sounding just like Harry felt, while Hermione sighed into her cider. Even she couldn’t muster up the energy for positivity about academia, which made Harry feel immensely grateful towards her. Then she asked, “How’s your Occlumency been?” and Harry felt significantly less grateful.

            All of the dread he had refused to feel came flooding into the pit of his stomach. “Good,” he managed, already thinking about how he had gotten further into the Department of Mysteries than Snape had wanted him to. “They’re going good.”

            “Well, at least we have that,” Hermione said, brightening slightly, and Ron nodded in agreement.

            When they had finished half-heartedly eating their pumpkin pasties in weary silence, Harry stood up to go to Snape’s office, and was walking towards the dungeons when he happened to look up and see Cho staring right at him.

            His stomach clenched.

            “Hey, Harry,” she said, voice trembling slightly. Harry glanced at the official-looking note in her hand: She had been to the Hospital Wing during class. “Can we…can we talk?”

            Harry didn’t want to talk, but even this was better than Occlumency with Snape, so he nodded, and they headed over to one of the small nooks along the hallway.

            Cho took a deep breath before saying in a tight voice, “Harry, I…I was just wanted to say that I never—I never thought she would so something like that—“

            “Yeah,” Harry said, staring resolutely at the stray crumbs on his robes. “How’ve you been? Has Umbridge asked you about…anything at all lately?”

            He didn’t want to talk about the DA. Cho wasn’t getting the hint, just shook her head and kept talking. Her voice set Harry’s teeth on edge. “No, she’s never singled me out for anything, just sometimes…lately in detentions she’s mentioned you once or twice, like, ‘Mr. Potter has been doing very poorly in class,’ little things like that. I suppose, what with—what with everything going on, I suppose she wants some sort of reaction. She’s made assumptions and everything, I guess, you know how it is.”

            Harry nodded, trying not to picture Umbridge leaning over her, looking for his name on her arm.

            “Well,” he said, “That’s—it could be worse.”

            Cho ran a hand through her short hair. “Yeah, it’s not awful, just…unpleasant. But Harry, what I really wanted to say—“ She took another deep breath, and Harry readied himself--“What I really wanted to say was that I’m sorry. Marietta…this isn’t like her. She’s a lovely person, one of my best friends, I don’t—“

            Neville had just started producing a corporeal Patronus, on that last night. Blaise Zabini, the lone Slytherin in the group, had showed up for his first meeting, Padma defending him to whoever gave him a wary glance. Zoe and Imogen had come up with new chants to end the lessons with, Terry Boot had played his new mixtape, and Anthony Goldstein and Amarissa Jones had taught the students useful practicing techniques for more basic spellwork. Ginny and Hannah and Susan Bones and so many others had produced full-fledged Patronuses, shining, silver animals swirling through the air. Harry had felt so proud. It had been a good day. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Well. It had been a good last try.

            “ _Lovely person_?” he quoted, deathly quiet. “Cho, I don’t think—“

            “Listen, she just—she made a mistake, alright—“

            “She betrayed us! She betrayed _you_.” Harry did not care that Cho flinched. Anger was the one thing he let himself feel. “It wasn’t just a mistake, you have to know that, she is a bloody traitor—“

            “Her Mum and Dad work for the Ministry, Harry! Their positions were put under supervision or—or something—“

            “I don’t care. Y’know who else has a Dad who works in the Ministry? Ron. Did he rat on us? No, he didn’t. He’s a good bloke, he wouldn’t turn his back on everything we’ve been working bloody hard for—“

            Cho’s face reddened. “I get it, I get that you’re upset, alright? I am too! But don’t—she’s my best friend, Harry, and you don’t get to do that to her. You don’t know the whole story—“

            Harry felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. “ _You_ don’t get it, you don’t understand, because if you did you’d know that she isn’t much of a friend, not at all.”

            Cho glared at him in stony silence. Breathed. Trying to control herself. Then: “I understand the anger. I understand feeling—feeling bloody awful about this. But what I can’t understand, what I _don’t get_ , is that you and your friends thought it’d be funny or—or something to make her have those—those _words_ on her face—“

            Marietta hadn’t wanted anyone to see ‘SNEAK’ burning across her forehead. She had spoken through the hands covering her face. Her voice had squeaked. Harry had never seen another student look so pathetically afraid.

            “I reckon she deserved it,” Harry said, fuming, because it had been going so well, he had been making a difference, they were doing something together and he had felt whole, and powerful, and like himself, for once—“She deserved it, and she’s a liar and a traitor and if you can’t see that, if you’re so blind—“

            Cho cut him off, eyes bright. “No, I am not listening to this! I can’t believe—fine, fine then, you sit in your self-pitying, self-righteous corner, but I am going to visit her in the Hospital Wing tonight, and I am going to keep doing it, and if you have a problem with that then you can just—you can just stay out of it.”

            She stormed off without another word.

            “Did you deign to practice what I’ve taught you?” Snape drawled, and Harry lied again, shoving the image of Cho walking away from him into a part of himself that no one could reach, and the Occlumency lesson went as well as anyone could expect.

TWENTY-FIVE

            “…Anyway, Harry, we just—yeah, James was a right prick back then, but you have to understand that he changed. He grew up, he stopped being such a prat. Lily loved him, after all, and she didn’t go for arseholes.”

            Lupin smiled fondly at Sirius’s recollecting. “We were…none of us were perfect, Harry. We weren’t, and we aren’t, and I expect that we’ll keep being imperfect until we’re put in the ground.”

            “No need to get so dark Moony,” Sirius said, shoving Lupin’s shoulder playfully. “And yes, James wasn’t all that, but you have to—Harry, you have to know that he loved you so much, and that no matter what he wanted the best for you.”

            Harry’s knees ached the longer he stayed crouched near the fireplace. He thought again about the photographs he had of his father, as a boy and as a young man and as a new father, and that maybe—maybe--- “He would’ve been a good dad, right? He wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have said things like that, or—or done things like that anymore—“

            Immediately, Lupin and Sirius began speaking over each other, waving their arms, shaking their heads, saying, “No, Harry, he would never have done that,” and, “He would’ve been the best bloody father,” and, “Harry, he loved you,” and, “He was one of the best people I knew, he grew into such a brave person—Harry, you’re more like him than you know—“ and Harry found that he didn’t resent or fear the comparison, now that Lupin and Sirius were nearly shouting over each other about how much they had loved James.

            He would’ve liked to have asked them about his father’s family, about the relatives he never got to know, because James was obviously a bit spoiled, and that if his father had been like Dudley, a bit, in Snape’s memory, and if he had grown out of it and became such a caring person, then maybe James would love him even now, if he could—

            Harry didn’t have the time to ask all of that, so he said, “Thanks, Remus, thanks Sirius, that—that helps. One last thing.” He paused, throat dry. He didn’t think he’d get this far in the conversation. “I…I, er. I have—she’s not, like, we’re not together, or anything like that, but—but she’s my soulmate, and we got into a bit of a row and we haven’t—we haven’t talked since, and I dunno, do you—d’you have any advice?”

            Silence.

            A slow, teasing grin lit Sirius’s face. “Well, hats off to her, she’s a lucky girl—“

            Harry felt, if possible, even more embarrassed. “Yeah, but—“

            “Sorry, Harry, what Sirirus is trying to say is that he’s happy for you, and that he’s sorry that you two are fighting. Right, Sirius?”

            “…Yes,” Sirius said, trying and failing to hide his smirk. “That’s…exactly what I was trying to say. Honestly, Harry, if she said anything that crossed a line, I can take care of it for you, no problem—“

            “Well,” Lupin interrupted rather loudly, though a smile of his own twitched across his face. “I’m afraid that neither of us are particularly qualified to answer questions about soulmates specifically. Have you tried-- ?”

            “Really?” Harry blurted out. “I mean—sorry, I just—“

            “It’s alright,” Lupin said, running a hand through his tightly curled, slightly graying hair before continuing. His voice was curiously light, almost detached. “I don’t have a soulmate, Harry. And before you ask, it doesn’t have to do with my…condition. It’s just what happens sometimes. You know that not everyone has one, right?”

            “Yeah,” Harry said, nodding rapidly, because he had heard Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon talk about it in low, hushed voices when they thought the children were asleep. “I thought I wouldn’t, until. You know.”

            Lupin looked at him carefully, and his voice was soft with a hint of steel underneath. “Everyone deserves love, in whatever form it comes in, no matter if it’s destined or—or sanctioned or not. If you hadn’t gotten a soulmate—all I’m saying is that that doesn’t matter nearly as much as people think it does.”

            Harry wanted, in that moment, to do something silly, like reach out and touch Lupin’s shoulder, but of course he couldn’t, on account of him not actually being in Grimmauld Place, so what he said instead was, “Thanks.”

            Lupin smiled back at him, worn and fierce, and Sirius said, “Try talking to her when you’ve both cooled down a bit, yeah? And if that’s what you wanted to know, Harry, that’s what we’ve got for you.” He gave him a thumbs-up and everything. “Hope we helped you out—“

            “Hang on,” Harry said, because even though his knees felt cramped and his face still reddened, he didn’t know if he’d ever feel brave enough to ask these questions again. It was now or never. _Talking about it helped_ , he repeated to himself before saying to Sirius, “Do you not have a soulmate too? Is that why you-- ?”

            Lupin coughed. “Ah, Harry, maybe we should save this for another time—“

            “No, no, it’s alright, Remus,” Sirius said, waving a hand at Lupin’s concerned glance. He smiled at Harry, though it didn't reach his eyes. He looked, almost, like he was back in Azkaban. After a short, stiff pause, he managed, “My soulmate was my brother. Little Regulus. So I’m afraid I can’t—“

            There were footsteps by the door. Harry almost jolted upwards, whispering frantically, “Gotta go, sorry, I’ll talk to Snape about giving me more lessons, thank you!” before throwing the Invisibility Cloak over himself and bolting out of the room before Filch could catch him.

            As he walked hurriedly down the hallway, Harry wondered why Sirius had looked so grim when talking about his brother, and then dismissed that line of thinking as Fred and George’s pranks were in full force. He would have more time to ask Sirius later, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER FOR NOTES. thanks!!


	17. Gwendolyn Gertrude Greengass is Raised from the Dead, The Return of SPEW, and Curious Correspondences

TWENTY-SIX

            The bedside chair Madame Pomfrey had provided weeks earlier had a strange-looking groove in the wood. In other words, on the chair’s left arm rested a dark, almost amorphous mouse. Every night, Cho would sit in the chair and rub the mark that looked like something real, like it was good luck. At this point, she was too tired from homework and crying to care if she was being ridiculous. Her hand would rest on the left arm, and her fingers would tap at the mouse, and her palm would spread as if to pet it.

            “Don’t…don’t look.”

            Cho stared at the mark. She moved her hand over it, again and again and again, as she had done the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that, and she sighed, shoulders dropping. She was losing track of how many nights she had spent in this chair. She stared at the mouse some more, a child-like hope blooming in her chest before fluttering away, unseen and barely noticeable, like a sparrow in a thicket within the deep and dark woods outside of Tutshill. She blinked. Her hand moved to her lap. The mouse was just wood.

            “You can look now.”

            Cho dragged her eyes away from the chair. Marietta lay in her hospital bed as usual, forehead covered by the dark blue hijab she had taken to wearing since her first day in the hospital wing. Normally she only wore her hijabs during certain holidays and whenever she attended her family’s local mosque, but now...now things had changed.

            “How does the new bandage feel?”

            “Itchy,” Marietta responded dryly, hands clasped tightly on her stomach. “The salve that Madame Pomfrey coated it with should hopefully be effective this time.”

            “That’s good,” Cho said, and mustered up a smile. One essay for History of Magic, two Potions assignments, studying for a Transfiguration quiz, and she still wasn’t done with her schoolwork. And she had thought her O.W.L.S. had been difficult!

            “Why’re you laughing?”

            Cho instantly quieted. “I—sorry, it was some bloody stupid thing. Just...have a lot of work to do, yeah? Flitwick’s essay is two days late, and if I don’t get it done tonight I’ll get a T for Troll except the whole thing is supposed to be on this spell that requires tears? And the funny thing is that I’d get excellent marks on this, because, you know—but I’ve been putting it off and I really can’t seem to do it, and—“

            Marietta laughed harsher than she would have under ordinary circumstances. “Flitwick loves you, and you can get one essay about one spell done tonight. Remember that pile of parchment you had last…month, I think it was? And you’d grabbed that box of tissues you have, and you drank some awful concoction of tea and something else—Lovegood had made it for you, I do not deign to know what was in that—and you’d showed up to History of Magic late, looking half-dead, and you handed in that entire roll of parchment, and you managed full marks? You’re going to do fine.”

            “Yes, but—“

            “Cho. Relax. Two days late is nothing. We’ve both procrastinated for entirely too long before. Besides—“ she pointed a finger at her bandaged, covered forehead—“There are worse things to worry about.”

            Cho winced, let out a nervous smile. “Yes, yes of course. You’re right.”

            “As always.”

            “As usual, you mean.”

            Marietta’s characteristically small smile widened slightly. “Semantics.”

            Cho leaned forward in her hospital chair, tiredness abating for the moment. “Pedantic.”

            “Frantic.”

            “Romantic.”

            “Of course you’d think of that one, Chang. Gigantic.”

            “Ooh, I’ve got one! Necromantic.”

            “Cho, I’m not dying. No need to resurrect me.”

            “Does that mean I win?”

            “Nonsense. Botanic.”

            “You’re going to have to concede defeat eventually. Manic.”

            “No need to concede when I’m doing so well. Atlantic.”

            “Yes, but Marietta—you’re going to have to accept what’s happened sometime. You can’t keep staying in the hospital wing forever.” A short pause. “Static.”

            Marietta raised an eyebrow. Her voice was as light and cold as a sunny winter breeze. “Not the best you’ve come up with. I win.”

            “Marietta—“

            “When Madame Pomfrey finds the correct counter-spell and cure, then I will gladly leave this place. Until then, I am staying here.”

            Cho bit her lip and tugged at a stray piece of hair. She still had Flitwick’s overdue essay to write. She still had to cry to get the spell right. She had not slept properly since the DA had been disbanded, her detentions with Umbridge had increased, Cedric smiled nervously at her in harried concern, and Harry—Cho clenched her jaw. She looked at Marietta, who had only left the hospital wing for classes she absolutely needed to go to, and said, “You’re not the only one. You’re not the only one who’s dealing with things.”

            A slow, brittle smirk slid across Marietta’s face. “I’m the only one who has ‘SNEAK’ scarred across my forehead. You just have to worry about one of Flitwick’s giveaway assignments, you don’t know—“

            “The only reason this has happened is because you told Umbridge in the first place.”

            Silence.

            The clock on the wall across from the hospital bed said it was 9:31pm. Madam Pomfrey was going to chase her out soon.

            Cho swallowed. “You told her everything. You did that. That’s why you’re in here.”

            She held up her hand for Marietta to see. The words were never going to fade away, not entirely. She stared at the speckled floor and pulled her shaking, aching hand back to her side. Her eyes burned, and she did not cry. Her nails cut into her palms. She could not say anything else. She looked up to the sound of sheets rustling and slight, sniffling, trembling noises—

            Marietta was crying.

            Cho squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and opened them. She passed over the tissue box labeled “CRY THE STRESS AWAY!!!!” and Marietta took it without a word. It was the first time she had cried about this. She stopped wiping her eyes with the bed-sheet. She blew her nose. She did not like to be touched, especially when she was upset, so Cho stayed right where she was.

            Eventually, she said, “I’m sorry.”

            Marietta lifted her head from her hands, voice small and nasally and hoarse. “I can’t go out there.”

            “Listen—“

            “Not yet. Ok?”

            “…Ok.”

            “I will, I’ll—I’ll be better.”

            Something heavy and painful settled in her chest. “Yeah.”

            “Cho.” Their eyes met. Marietta swallowed. Her voice was soft and almost desperate. “Cho, I’m sorry too.”

             Cho sighed and accepted her box of tissues back. “Alright.”

             9:39pm. Madam Pomfrey was going to come soon.

             “…Cho?”

             “Yeah?”

             “Can you…can you read to me?” She paused, hands twisting. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just—your voice helps.” She ducked her head. “I’m sorry, you really don’t—“

             Cho reached into her bedazzled, fuzzy pink bag, pulled out her dog-eared copy of Willa Willoughby’s _Gwendolyne and the Garden of Love_ , and began to read: “ _It was raining on the day that Gwendolyne Gertrude Greengrass’s life changed forever. She could not have guessed, staring at the familiar dark roof of her coffin, that her day was going to be any different than the last one. She quite liked being in the still, musty, peaceful earth. She could not have guessed that a certain Germaine Gerald Grape would disturb her undead slumber. Indeed, it must be said that Grape himself could never have suspected that such an occurrence would transpire, so mired in his own roiling thoughts was he on that particular rainy Wednesday in March…”_

             A page into chapter two, Madame Pomfrey bustled over to them, demanding that she had better leave Marietta to her rest. “And you two, dear, you need your sleep. Off you go, if you please.”

           “Yes, just one moment.”

            Madame Pomfrey tapped her shoe against the floor. “When I get back from inspecting McMillian, you had better be gone. “    

            “Oh yes, certainly.”

            “Good.”

            The older woman hurried off, muttering under her breath about some medicinal herb or some such idea. Cho rose out of the chair, wincing as she stretched her cramped muscles, and walked to Marietta, leaning down so they didn’t have to strain themselves. “You’ve got to get to Potions tomorrow. Have you done all of your work?”

            Marietta sniffed. “You know I have. Not much else to do here.”

           “Michael will stop by in the morning before class, as per usual. He’s drawn up interesting sketches of nifflers, and some pretty funny comics involving Gwen and Germaine. Very inspired.”

           A smile curled into the corner of Marietta’s mouth. “I’m sure.”

          Cho bent her head, and very carefully kissed her friend’s forehead. “Get some sleep.”

          “I will.”  Marietta stared at Cho’s eyebrow. Her voice was very quiet. “ _Duset daram_.” She did not say it in the way she had said it to her parents or her grandparents or her cousins or her other friends.

         Cho smiled as gently as she could. “I know.”

         She gathered her things together—book, tissue box, bag—made sure that a new Spice Girls card was on Marietta’s bedside table, and left without looking back.

TWENTY-SEVEN

          “Alright,” Hermione said, drawing herself up and gathering her frizzy hair into a loose ponytail. “I know things haven’t been the best lately—“

          “You can say that again,” Ron interrupted, staring moodily at the floor of the kitchens.

          “Yes, well, that’s exactly why—“

           “Hermione, please,” Harry sighed, and rubbed his tingling scar for good measure. “Can we do this another time? It’s only been—“

           “No.” Hermione fixed them with a glare so potent that neither of them said another word. “No, we aren’t rescheduling. It took us—it took _me_ this long to get everyone in this room, at this time, at this hour, and we are not risking another logistical nightmare.” Her face softened. “I know that it’s been difficult to deal with Gryffindor’s loss—“

           “Oh sod off, you’ve never cared about Quidditch—“

           “Ron, please—“

          “You’ve never cared about Quidditch,” Ron repeated hotly, “So why should I care about your stupid SPEW? You expect us to give a niffler’s arse about your little club, but when Gryffindor loses to Ravenclaw in the _bloody Quidditch final_ , all you can do is shrug your shoulders and say, ‘Oh well,’ like it wasn’t the worst match we’ve ever played—“

          “Ron—“

         “Like it wasn’t all because of bloody Umbridge and those stupid—those stupid chants Malfoy and his merry band of twats keep shouting—“

         “Ron! Will you please listen to me?”

          Harry accepted a cup of pumpkin juice from one of the elves darting in and out of the kitchens with an awkward, “Er, thanks,” and was grateful for the distraction in the tense silence that followed. He had taken his fourth or fifth sip when—

         “I’m sorry,” Hermione said, sounding not quite as sorry as she could have but nevertheless somewhat contrite. “I know that Quidditch means a lot to you both, and I know that Gryffindor’s loss wasn’t pleasant—don’t give me that look, Ron—but I’ve been to every one of your matches and I’ve cheered and I’ve even done your bloody homework for you. All I’m asking is that you show up to meetings, and that you participate in them. Alright?”

         “Fine,” Ron muttered after another long moment, picking at his sleeve. “What d’you want us to do, O Wise Ruler of the House-Elves?”

         “I’m glad you asked,” Hermione replied, electing to ignore his comment for once. This must really be serious, Harry reflected, if Hermione was putting aside her need to be right. “Ron, I’m going to ask you to help with human-elf relations, just—all you have to do is make sure there are no big fights. And Harry, you’re going to be treasurer, and we don’t even have a budget right now so all you’re going to do is remind me not to spend so much on yarn and new knitting needles. Are we all agreed?”

         Harry yawned and stretched slowly. His hand still stung from today’s detention with Umbridge. “Yeah.”

        “Whatever,” Ron said, and shared a glance with Harry: he had had detention with Umbridge two days ago.

        “Excellent,” Hermione said, that familiar glint of fervor returning to her eyes. “Now we just need—“

        “Sorry I’m late,” a familiar voice called. Moments later, Cedric Diggory was before them, parchment tucked under his arm, quill stuck behind his ear, hair in a messy bun. “I tried to get my mates to come, but they’ve all got loads of other stuff to do. Next time, yeah?”

        “Yes!” Hermione practically squealed at the mention of potential new members. “Yes, of course, not a problem. Cedric,” she explained to a frowning Ron, “is here on behalf of _The Quibbler_ as its newest long-distance intern, and he’s also our secretary. Luna will be joining us at next week’s meeting. The elves I’ve spoken to think that an article in the paper will do SPEW good,” she finished while Harry desperately sipped more of his pumpkin juice to hide his blush—did Cedric really have to wear a T-shirt? Did his nail polish have to be so pink? Did he have to have such broad shoulders and powerful arms?

         Hermione shook Cedric’s hand warmly. “I hope that you’re well?”

        “Yeah,” Cedric said, a worn smile forming on his freshly-shaven face. “Yeah, it’s been better. How’re you all?”

        “Good,” Ron said unconvincingly, while Hermione responded, “I’m fantastic, thank you,” and Harry forced himself to look at Cedric’s face for longer than a second. Green eyes met gray ones, and a cold hiss whistled past Harry’s ears—he felt icy anticipation settle into the pit of his stomach, an unfamiliar curse heavy on his tongue--

        “’M alright,” he mumbled into his pumpkin juice, and Cedric nodded a bit too quickly to be casual. He sat on the floor of the kitchen, across from Harry and on Hermione’s left.

         “Now that we have all of this meeting’s human members,” Hermione said, talking very quickly as she grew more apprehensive and excited all at once, like she was back in the DA, “It’s time to invite others to the meeting.” She stood up on shaky knees, took a deep breath, and called out, “Fitzherbert? Are you there?”

          Her voice was just loud enough to echo. As the few working elves ignored her, another flickered into the center of the group of students with a slight pop. Harry tried not to startle too much. He breathed through his nose, tried to think of nothing. The hissing slowly dissipated. He did not feel anything but his own tiredness. Still, when he glanced down, he saw a long, pale hand instead of his own. Harry shook his head, squeezed his hand, and—and there was a building pain in his head. Great. Just what he needed.

         Harry sighed and did his best to focus on the elf known presumably as Fitzherbert as they shook a knobbed finger at Hermione. “I am here, Granger. Don’t expects me to answer when called on your whims.”

        “Of course not,” Hermione said smoothly, and extended a hand. “Remember? I want to do this together.”

         Fitzherbert glanced at Hermione warily. Then the old elf sighed deeply, the sound rattling through their bony frame, and took her hand. “Together.”

         “Yes.”

         “I’ll gets the others.”

         “Thank you, Fitzherbert.”

          Right before Fitzherbert snapped their fingers to disappear and summon the other elves, Cedric blurted out, “Wait! Please, if—if you want.”

          The elf raised a thin, wispy, silver eyebrow. “Yes?”

          “I—sorry, I’m Cedric, it’s—I thought I’d ask, er, how d’you like to be called?”

           The elf stared.

           Cedric rubbed the back of his neck, face reddening. “I mean…I was talking to Professor Firenze, but that’s not the point, I—look, I know that elves don’t call each other boys and girls and suchlike, I thought I’d—“

          “Girl, most of the time.”

          Cedric inclined his head. “Thank you.”

          Fitzherbert snapped her fingers and vanished.

          “I met her when I was collecting all of my hats and scarves and socks back from other elves,” Hermione said, looking sheepish as she sat back down. “She started cursing at me in elfish, not magically, just swear words, but she was wearing one of my socks, so I asked her about it, and, well, I’ll explain the rest later. We’ve been in touch. D’you know she’s helped write some of the only books on house elf history and culture? I reckon she’s at least two hundred and fifty, certainly one of the oldest elves at Hogwarts.”

         “What, d’you have to scrub her feet to get her to listen to you? My old Aunt Muriel would always make us do shite like that.”

         “No, Ron,” Hermione frowned while a lopsided smile tugged at the edge of her lips. “Fitzherbert isn’t like your aunt. She would hate it if I touched her feet, first of all—most house elves take great pride in the upkeep of their feet—and in any case, she’s not—“

         With more popping sounds came more elves, until five of them, Fitzherbert included, were in the middle of the group.

         “Harry Potter, sir, it is good to see you!”

         “Hi, Dobby,” Harry said, and couldn’t help grinning despite his Dark-Lord-induced headache; the elf’s happiness was palpable, and Dobby beamed in response, bobbing his head only a little in deference.

          Winky sniffled a bit and shuffled from side to side, decidedly more shy than her friend was. Cedric gave her a slight, gentle smile, and she looked at him with her wide, red-tinged eyes before ducking her head low in thanks.

         The third elf before them looked to be the youngest there, and excitedly strode forward to shake hands with everyone. They plainly ignored Dobby and Winky’s frowns and Fizherbert’s shove, and Hermione shook their hand with nearly as much eagerness.

         “Pleased to meet you,” she said as she took the elf’s much smaller hand in her own. “I’m Hermione Granger, co-president of the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

         “Pleased to meets you as well,” the elf chirped back, ears permanently perked up. “I’m Boot, not a boy or a girl, and I named myself.”

           When they skipped over to Harry, their brown eyes widened. “Dobby’s told us about Mr. Harry Potter, sir!”

           “Er,” Harry said, taking the elf’s hand gently in his own. “Yes, well, Dobby’s my friend.”

            “I hopes we can all be friends,” Boot said merrily in a high-pitched, flute-like voice, though there was a seriousness to the way they gripped his hand. A spark of unfamiliar magic tingled up his arm. “I hopes we can go back to how it was before. All of us, bound. That’s why I shakes your hands.”

            Without another word, Boot shook hands with Ron and Cedric, who responded in varying degrees of enthusiasm.

            The fourth elf had not moved from their spot behind Winky. They stared at the floor, and muttered in a deep voice, “Ethel. ‘M a girl, I reckon.”

            “Excellent,” Hermione said after an awkward pause, and turned to Fitzherbert. “The other co-president of SPEW is going to bring up the joint agenda, if it’s agreeable.”

            “Certainly,” Fitzherbert replied, mimicking Hermione’s prim speech in her own rasping voice. “First, we musts discuss the history. Then Hogwarts. Then liberation.”

            “I likes that,” Dobby chimed in, gazing at Fitzherbert with the zeal of a soldier. “I likes that very much indeed.”

            “Of course you do,” Fitzherbert muttered exasperatedly. “Your face is still too small for your ears—“

            “Anyway,” Hermione interjected before Dobby could respond, “Fitzherbert, you were saying something about history?”

            “Yes,” Fitzherbert said gruffly, pulling herself up to her full, diminutive height. She was wiry, face sharp, ears drooped and pierced with earrings of various sizes. Her eyes were in a permanent dark squint. There were scars of all sorts on her face and arms, from burns to cuts to otherwise. “Before you humans can do anything useful, you needs our history. The real one.”

             Dobby nodded vigorously while Winky nodded slightly in assent. Ethel gave some deep-throated noise of agreement. Ron looked at them all, brow furrowed, and said, “What’s that mean?”

              Fitzherbert raised a bony finger. “I tells you. Listen.”

              Cedric began scribbling on his parchment as Fitzherbert began to speak, and Harry found that by now he wasn’t being plagued by someone else’s thoughts, that he could focus as best he could. Even Ron did not interrupt, and looked interested in spite of himself.

             “We was not always called house elves. Before, we were called brownies. When we wanted to, we cleaned wizards’ houses, kepts everything in order, and in return wizards would leaves cream or sweet things for us. We were not forced. It was a sharing. We could come and go as we pleased.”

              “What changed?” Cedric asked, looking up from his note-taking.

              “The British Statute of Wizarding Secrecy of 1692,” Hermione said, glaring at the floor. “Technically it’s called the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy, because Britain had started establishing its colonies overseas, but really it pertained to British society.”

              Fitzherbert nodded, jaw clenched. “Yes. The—what, you calls them Muggles? Yes, yes, the Muggles did not likes the wizards, and burnings happened, much distrust. The wizards grew afraid—what if the brownies gives them up, gives them away to the Muggles, so that the brownies can takes the houses all for themselves? Ridiculous. The brownies tried to explain, but the wizards had started to think that we were already their servants. Brownies went to pure-bloods’ houses the most, they had the best cream—the pure-bloods had kepts us in their houses, trapped with their magic. We do not knows who did it first, if we did, well, I would—I would—but thats is for another time. Eventually wizards began using blood magic on us, made us stay.”

               “What?”

               Fitzherbert fixed Ron with a glare. “Some brownies escaped when wizards tried to trap them, wents into hiding. Most thought that the wizards would comes to their senses, stop being afraid. They did not. The pure-bloods who dids not like the changes forced brownies to serve them forever. Brownies serving the same family, kepts in the house, has to follow commands, for all time.” A grin cut across Fitzherbert’s face at Cedric’s wide eyes, Hermione’s deep frown, Ron’s open mouth, and Harry’s fidgeting. “Didn’t all work, because they did not knows everything. Brownies tricked the wizards into giving us their clothes. Still, many of us coulds not get free. Other wizards starts to own us too, we were...being bought for lower prices. They started calling us house-elves, it was…it was part of a joke, an old one—and then, after many long years, the wizards called us house-elves because they forgots who we had been, because the house is where we stayed.”

               Fitzherbert blinked furiously, and her voice was hoarse. Her hands shook. “We forgot. We forgot who we had been. But some of us kepts the knowledge. That is what my family did. We all knew we was brownies, not house-elves. I freed myself when I was a century old. I took my master’s name for myself, and she died without it. It is mine. I am a brownie. We all are.”

               “Not all,” Winky said hotly, looking at Fitzherbert with nervous dislike. “We are not all brownies. I am an elf, not anything else. ‘S who I am, not ashamed of serving Mr. Crouch, not at all.”

              Fitzherbert sighed. “You do not—“

              “I know who I am,” Winky glared. “I know. You don’t.”

             “Yes, yes, but the history, you needs to know—“

             “Fitzherbert,” Dobby interrupted, scuffing his foot on the floor. “Let—let Winky be, please, she has had struggles, please—“

             “We should call ourselves what we wants to,” Boot declared, waving their hand at Fitzherbert’s glowering. “I named myself Boot because ‘s what I used to get free. You can be a brownie, Winky can be a house-elf—“

             “’S not right,” Ethel growled, speaking at last, thick fingers twitching. “We shoulds be talking about wages and contracts, not rubbish names. Teach the others how to ask for a raise, how to buy things, get out of here, get free—“

             Fitzherbert’s ears reddened. “Yes, but we needs to do names first—“

             “No, we needs to do other things—“

             The air started to crackle as Fitzherbert and Ethel began circling each other. Dobby grabbed Winky’s hand, face screwed up as if anticipating a blow—

            “Alright,” Hermione said, “alright, we can talk about this later, we will absolutely discuss all of these issues, but let’s not be cruel, yes? That’s unproductive, after all—“

            “Unproductive?” Ethel seethed, eyes never leaving Fitzherbert’s face. “No wages, no pay for so long, and here it is not much better—do not talk about work you have not done—“

            “You all feel like rubbish, right?” Ron asked loudly, hands spread wide.

            “I feels good,” Boot said petulantly. “I feels good when we can calls each other how we wants to—“

            “That’s not what I mean,” Ron interjected, shaking his head. “We’re all here because we want things to change. Yeah?”

            After a long moment, everyone nodded. Fitzherbert put her hands to her sides. Ethel did the same, though they still curled their lips at each other. Winky snuck a glare at Fitzherbert while Dobby looked between the two older elves, torn.

            Finally, Fitzherbert sighed, and said with unshakable authority, “We’d all feel worse if we starts fighting. And we don’t wants to get caught.”

            “…Yes,” Ethel grumbled, jaw still tensed. “Yes, we haves to be careful.”

            Fitzherbert nodded, the only sign of apology given to the other elf.

            Boot mimicked Ron’s dry tone from earlier. “’Course.”

            Ron frowned at Boots before managing, “Right, yeah.”

            Hermione smiled forcefully. “Yes, we’ll come back to all of this later. Thank you, Fitzherbert, Ethel, Dobby, and Winky, for voicing your opinions. And thank you, Ron.”

            Ron shrugged. “Just doing what you asked.”

            Hermione looked at him so gratefully that Ron’s ears reddened. Harry rolled his eyes. Cedric was busy writing everything down, quill frantically scribbling, and Winky said in a quavering voice, “We needs to have rules. We needs to have rules, and solutions.”

            “Yeah,” Harry nodded, head aching only a little by now. “We need goals and rules. It—it worked for the DA, it can work for this.”

            “Yes, exactly,” Hermione said to them both, looking at her watch. “But our time is up, I’m afraid. You all have dinner to prepare for, yes?”

            “Yes,” Fitzherbert said, and Winky looked relieved.

            “Until next time,” Hermione said, and she bowed her head slightly.

            Fitzherbert nodded in satisfaction at this show of deference. “I will speaks with you again soon.”

            “It was nice to meet you all,” Cedric said, smiling, ink spots on his cheek.

            “See you,” Ron added.

            “Bye,” Harry finished, and added a thumbs up for good measure.

            One by one, the house-elves and Fitzherbert the brownie snapped their fingers and vanished. Dobby, of course, said goodbye to Harry in his customary way, while Boot grinned at the humans before leaving. Ethel still did not look at any of them, and marched off instead of snapping her fingers. There was still a faint burning smell in the air.

            “Well,” Hermione said. “I’d say that was a success, all things considered. Wouldn’t you?”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Composed Over the Course of Three Weeks. Final Draft, Stained with Tea, is Delivered by way of Borrowed Owl on the 31st of May, 1995. Ministry-Inspected and Hesitantly Approved, as there was No Ink Found on the Envelope or the Letter, and the Packages Delivered Carried Contents Deemed Irrelevant:

_Harry:_

_A month ago, it had occurred to me that there are other photographs of your father’s family stored away in the Order’s dusty archives. After waiting for official approval for far too long, those very pictures are enclosed in this missive. Not all of them have inscriptions on the back, and they are not organized very well. I do not know what to make of some of them myself. I hope you find enjoyment in them, and I hope that you will tell me when you have finished the books I have sent you. You and I have much to discuss._

_The snow is gone from Privet Drive. It has been for a while, but the child in me still misses it. The cats are all well, as I am sure you want to know. Ashna had swallowed a ribbon of some sort, and Ferdinand had a sprained paw from an outdoor exploration, but they are well now. I have charmed Dr. Adebayo into giving me discounts on the vet fees, as per usual. She is a dear, very patient with the cats._

_The neighborhood is the neighborhood. I have taken to wearing brighter turbans than usual. In these times, one must find joy in small things._

_I have heard about your dreams. Do not be angry with me: I have a right to know as much as any other Order member. I will not tell you this often, because it is so obvious, but I will tell you now: Be safe._

_I have also sent more laddu, since it was apparently so popular. Not that I am surprised: my mother is surely smiling in her grave. It is her recipe, you know, perfected from my grandmother’s. You are most welcome._

_And yes, Harry, I can see thestrals. I have for a long time now._

_\-- Mrs. Figg_

Scribbled During History of Magic with Stale Ink, and Hastily Delivered to the Burrow on the 5th of June, 1995. Content is Ministry-Inspected and Deemed Somewhat Threatening:

              _Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Classes are decent, I’ve been studying for the OWLs, and Harry is alright._

_This is about some questions I have._

_Hermione’s started this club for house-elf rights, and one of them kept saying that they used to all be brownies. Is that true? Aren’t brownies extinct? I had to go to another meeting this week, and all of the elves or brownies or whatever kept saying that a lot of them had fought against You Know Who in the first war. Are they nutters or is that what actually happened?_

_What language do they speak? A few of them kept gossiping in something that wasn’t English before the meeting started. What are house-elf insults?_

_Anyway, one of them, Ethel, she’s alright. We played chess after a meeting because she refused to go back to work, and she almost beat me. Do elves or brownies or whatever ever get paid for anything? Are they all such sore losers?_

_Yes, I’ll keep studying hard. Thanks for the treacle from last week._

_Love,_

_Ron_

Sketched in the Early Hours of the Morning in the Hospital Wing, and Delivered that Evening in the Ravenclaw Common Room on the 7th of June, 1995:

            _Chang:_

_Ignore the doodle of you in the upper right hand corner, that’s not at all what you look like. Your hair isn’t that neat._

_Kidding, obviously. In all seriousness, what do you think of the little flowers I drew towards the bottom? The petals were a bit tricky to get right, but I didn’t want to look at them closer and wake Marietta._

_She said she’s going to attend all of her exams. At least she won’t be doing them in bed, right? I know how she is. She nearly bit my head off when I asked her about the treatments she’s been getting. But I really think she’s getting better about what happened._

_Yesterday, I was thinking of getting a group together to study for Potions in the library. Let me know what you think.. Luna said she would bring snacks, Amarissa has her color-coded notes, Padma’s bringing tea, and Toby has his…mantras, I suppose?_

_In case you were wondering about my whereabouts on Monday afternoon, I was in Madame Pudifoot’s practicing some figure drawings. That place always has the most interesting people, and they are all a delight to try to capture. Yes, I tried drawing Valerie again. I still can’t get her quite right. She told me about a sale on their tea coming up in two weeks, by the way. Maybe someday I’ll tell her I fancy her, but, well, now’s not the time. There’s studying to be done. Don’t give me that look, Chang._

_Marietta’s talking in her sleep right now. Nothing understandable, but it is quite funny to watch._

_The sun is starting to rise. She’s going to wake up soon, and we’ll have a chat. Maybe we can get her to come to the Potions party too._

_The sky is getting to be my favorite shade of pink. The birds are soft. I thought you’d like to know that._

_Yours in Hospital Babysitting,_

_Michael_

Rediscovered Late at Night on the on the 10th of June, 1995, Under a Pile of Old To-Do Lists. Originally Written as a Rough Draft on the 30th of January, 1995, on the

Back of Two Grocery Lists in Cramped, Small Lettering:

            _Dearest Vernon:_

_How has your business trip been so far? I hope that that awful Scottish man you work with has not ruined any of the deals you’re trying to make with him. Do you see men in kilts? Do they look as ridiculous as I imagine?_

_~~Dudley has had more trouble in school~~_

_Dudley has won another wrestling match. That diet is making our boy into a man. He’s strong and determined, just like his father._

_~~I am sorry if this letter is a bore. Today is difficult for me, please~~_

_Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael continue to be terrible neighbors, loud at night, and with the most horrendously kept lawn. I highly suspect that Mrs. C. is having an affair with Mr. Jameson, and will notify the neighborhood should my suspicions be confirmed. Then of course there is that absurd old crone who surely makes her house a fire hazard with all of those yowling cats. Something must be done about those animals, it simply isn’t safe to have so many roaming about._

_~~Do you think that there are any more of those dementors roaming about the area? Do you know what they can do, what they almost did~~_

_I hope the weather in Glasglow is not as cold and rainy as it is here. We could all use some sun, I should think, provided it does not give us an unseemly complexion. I have heard fears of skin cancer from dear Mrs. Phillips. We should buy new sunscreen for summer._

_~~She~~_

_~~That woman~~_

_~~Potter’s wife~~_

_Lily loved sunny days. Summer was her favorite season. I can’t imagine why, what with all of those nasty insects crawling about! She would be outside all day. I always made fun of her for her burnt shoulders. Served her right. That is what I have always told her._

_Today is her birthday._

_It is strange, still, to look at my palm and to see nothing on it._

Written in the Library Before Dinner in Perfect Cursive, Content is Ministry-Inspected and Considered a Potential Threat, Delivered on the 12th of June, 1995:

            _Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Hello! I hope this letter finds you well. Studying for OWLs is tiring, but it will all be worth it when I receive Os for Outstanding!_

_I’m sorry that I do not have the time to write a longer letter. I will have to get right to the point, before Ron or Harry or anyone else interrupts._

_SPEW is going well so far, though I might have to alter the name a bit. I was having a conversation with the co-president, and it got me thinking. I can’t believe I haven’t thought to ask this before, but do you know about any distant relatives or ancestors who were magical? We were talking about the erasure of history, and I realized that I’m not sure about my own. I would like to know. Please look for me._

_I will keep studying, and yes, I brush my teeth twice a day. Thank you, mum, for the new clips for my hair! They brighten my day. Dad: thank you for the jerk sauce. The chicken tastes like home now._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

Delivered with Priority Status to the Minister of Magic on the 13th of June, 1995, in a Pink, Scented Envelope:

            _Cornelius,_

_This is not about anything urgent, I assure you. With the old fool gone, Hogwarts is steadily becoming the institution of learning that it was always meant to be. I am wondering, however, if I could broach the topic we had previously discussed a number of months ago. I know that you are a busy man, and that you have a duty to serve the wizarding community, but I believe that this takes momentary precedence, as it will only strengthen the Ministry and Hogwarts._

_You know, obviously, of the list that I have gathered. The soulmates of many students and faculty of Hogwarts has been further updated, and I daresay that it is getting to be quite expansive. Allow me to say that it would be unwise not to use this information in the interest of serving the public. In these trying times, we need to encourage those who are oppositional to our ideals to accept your administration. We need to ensure that the Wizarding World is kept safe from those who spout misinformation and lies, and I believe that this list will be the most efficient, effective way of quelling any dangerous ideas. You mentioned your concerns about breaches of privacy and potential legal fallout, but need I remind you of the dire possibilities_ The Prophet _reports, should we be too complacent to the dangers around us?_

_Of course, you are not in any real danger. I only say this to highlight the growing number of dissidents. They can be quashed, certainly, with this list. They can pose no threat to you or the Ministry. You will be safe, and free to do as you wish, as any Minister has a right to do. We have our own lawyers, our own supporters. Should this list be shared with the many Ministry members who are sympathetic to you and your noble cause, I have no doubt that it will garner praise and necessary attention. To our allies, the list will symbolize our commitment to national security, and our diligence in keeping our community safe. To our enemies, the list will prove our strength, and guarantee their cooperation._

_I have the list of soulmates in a secure location. Send the word, and it will be sent to you immediately._

_Have a pleasant weekend off in Paris._

_Yours in service,_

_Dolores Umbridge_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY HERE! AN UPDATE! NEW CONTENT! IT'S BEEN....ALMOST SIX MONTHS??....For those of you who have waited patiently and want to read this new stuff, thank you so much, you have my unending gratitude. I understand the frustration of waiting for an author to update, believe me. And if you're not into the fic anymore, that's completely understandable. You also have my unending gratitude. :) (that is a genuine smiley face in case anyone reading this is worried) 
> 
> This school year has been difficult on so many levels. I admit that I was tempted to give up on writing this fic altogether. Why write a Harry Potter fanfiction when there's so much work to do, when the political climate in the US is as it is? I thought that I had better focus on other, more important things. I was wrong, of course; writing this update has been a lengthy process, but it is worth every long night. Writing this fic, now more than ever, has become an immense source of comfort for me. I hope that maybe you'll read it and get a similar feeling. 
> 
> Anyway, enough of that. I'll certainly do my best to update more frequently! Finals are approaching but I should be much less busy in the summer. I have plans for this fic, and I intend to see them through to the end. Thanks again, you guys have kept this fic going in so many ways.


	18. Amongst Friends (Before the Storm Arrives), Interlude #6, A House-Elf is Readied for Shipment, and Kreacher, Alone

TWENTY-NINE

            “Hey, Zoe?”

             “Yeah?”

            She was stretched out on one of the couches in the common room as usual, studying the book she’d gotten on a training program for Healers and its entrance exams. She scribbled a note in the margins of a page, elbows digging into the yellow cushions, the feathers of her quill brushing against her chin.

            Cedric rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

            Zoe closed her book and laughed tiredly. “I’ve been studying this bloody thing for ages. ‘S good of you to come by, I need a break anyway.”  She softened when Cedric didn’t move from the entrance to the round, earth-packed entrance to the common room. “Seriously, Ced, it’s fine. D’you need something? Before the others get here, I mean?”

            Cedric closed his eyes, opened them, and squared his shoulders. He could be brave. He could. “Oh nothing, it’s more like—I have this question, I s’pose—“

            “Cedric!”

            Bertie practically bounced into the common room, a whirlwind of movement as usual, parchment crinkling in her arms. “Hey, mate,” she reiterated, flopping onto one of the armchairs near the couch. “Didn’t mean to barge in, it’s just. Well, you know.” She adjusted her enormous round glasses, foot tapping incessantly. “Haven’t seen you in a while, is all. Good of you to show.”

            Guilt squirmed in Cedric’s chest. One of the worst things about this year, his last year, was that it felt strange to be in the common room right now instead of his Head Boy quarters.

He faced Bertie and her bouncing leg. “Yeah. Yeah, hey, I’m sorry about that. I’ve just been—you know, being Head Boy and meeting with Sprout and doing that _Quibbler_ thing and—“

            Bertie held up one small hand. “You have a lot on your plate, I get it. We all do. It’d be nice to hear from you more often, Mr. I’m Head Boy So I’m Better Than Everyone Else.”

            “Bertie—“

            She held up her hand again, and forcefully cleaned her glasses. She could hold onto the tiniest grudge like nobody’s business. Back in third year, she didn’t forgive Imogen for stealing her quill in History of Magic for a full month.

            Speaking of—there Imogen was, arriving slightly late as usual. She strode into the room with elegant ease, long dreadlocks pulled into a loose ponytail that nearly swished the floor.

            She saw Cedric and immediately glided over to him, holding out her arms. “Ced! It’s been ages!”

            A spark of exasperation burst through the haze of guilt. “C’mon, I saw you all...what was it, three weeks ago…?”

            “A month and a half.”

            “No,” Cedric frowned at Bertie’s curt reply. “No, it can’t have been that long--”

            “It has,” Imogen said, so matter-of-fact that Cedric almost missed the catch in her voice. She swallowed, then raised an eyebrow. “So? Do I get a hug or not?”  

            Cedric rolled his eyes—she never was one for subtlety. “Alright. Alright, it’s only fair.”

            Except Cedric didn’t mind giving hugs, and Imogen was so tall, taller than him, and she squeezed him too tightly. It was such a familiar feeling, his sides aching slightly—she smelled like earl gray tea and mint like she always did, and—and Cedric had to wipe his eyes when they broke apart.

            “You alright?” Imogen asked, frowning.

            “Yeah,” Cedric managed, “I’ve—it’s been hard. We—Awhina and I, we have to sit in class and smile and Umbridge--she told us that we were some of Hogwart’s brightest.” Cedric’s face twisted, bile in his throat. Umbridge had even offered them positions as her very own personal assistants after graduation. When they had gotten back to their quarters after politely declining the offer, Cedric could hear Awhina blasting music through the walls: _“E Tu! Stand Proud! Kia Kaha! Say It Loud!”_

            Cedric had just paced around his room, staring at his clean, unmarked hands. He hadn’t gotten a single detention all year. He had gone to DA meetings, but he had never been caught. He had been so careful, so cautious. Awhina yelled curses at Umbridge at least once a day, and Cedric did not, could not say anything: what right did he have to complain?

            “It’s other things, too.” Cedric looked at them all, at Imogen smiling gently in front of him, at Bertie squinting at him in what he hoped was a concerned way, at Zoe tapping her quill absently on her chin. Cedric’s chest constricted. He hadn’t realized, before, how much he had missed them. Cedric couldn’t help it—he had to wipe his eyes again, the tears hot and wet. He took a deep breath, and tried not to drift away from himself.

            “Always have been a sap,” Zoe teased as she sat up and made room for Imogen on the couch. Bertie kept looking at Cedric, like she still wasn’t sure if he’d really missed them or not. It was a fair assessment to make: he hadn’t spoken to them often, just nodded at them in the hallways and in class, just ate meals with them and listened, head down, hunched over his pudding.

            Cedric sat in his favorite armchair, the one right by the cacti hanging from the ceiling, the one near the window overlooking the field of dandelions. Someone else’s empty mug rested on the little table next to it. Cedric shook his head: it was silly to feel annoyed. It’s not like the chair was his. It’s not like other people weren’t going to sit in it, after he left. He gripped the armrests just the same. “I hope this is…I hope this is ok. That I’d like you all to be here.”

            “Of course,” Imogen said as Zoe nodded into her shoulder, and when Bertie looked like she was about to protest, Imogen raised an eyebrow, and Bertie closed her mouth.

            Cedric felt himself smiling, and dug his fingernails into his palms. He needed to be present. “Thanks.”

            “So what’s up?” Bertie asked, curious despite everything. “What’s gotten you to descend from your fancy Head Boy quarters?”

            Cedric’s shoulders stiffened, and he felt a tendril of hair escape from behind his ear. It brushed against his chin, and after a moment he tossed it behind his ear again. It was little things like that—sometimes he didn’t notice himself at all, not until Awhina or someone else would say something.

            He leaned back into the armchair. A large part of him wanted to burrow into the upholstery and disappear altogether—it was an odd feeling, to be looked at by his friends and to hear a low buzzing in his ears and to feel like he was floating above it all, their gazes inconsequential, as though they were looking at the furniture and not at him.

            Yet Bertie in particular stared at him with mounting intensity, and Cedric squeezed his eyes shut and allowed himself to be pinned down by her exaggerated squint.  

            He swallowed. He breathed. His voice sounded tinny in his ears. “Well, what—ok, so I’ve mentioned how I’m volunteering for _The Quibbler_ , right?”

            Imogen nodded. “Right. That’s with the Lovegood girl, yeah?”

            Cedric nodded back. “Yes, Luna and I have been writing some articles for her father’s paper--bits and baubles about Hogwarts, about things called wrackspurts--Zoe, don’t ask. So one of the articles that we’re going to write is going to be about the house-elves here, and it’s going to make it to the front page if Mr. Lovegood thinks it’s good enough.” Cedric paused. He was rambling. He liked writing for _The Quibbler_ —it required him to be concise and immediate, comfortably confined to word limit and topic.

            Cedric gathered his words together, and he brushed his hair back. “And the article is going to be about what house-elves call themselves--a lot of them call themselves, well, house-elves, but others call themselves brownies, and, er, also! Not all of them think of themselves as male and female. And--and would you all mind coming with me as I interview them?”

            Zoe nodded her head excitedly--she’d shaved it again, Cedric realized with a start, it was a good look on her, as was the bright pink eyeshadow that contrasted nicely with her dark skin—Merlin, he really was fixating too much on other people’s fashion sense. Just the other day he’d been staring too long at Zacharias Smith’s little ponytail.

“So,” Zoe said, and Cedric returned from his wandering musings. “So house-elves or brownies or whatever, they have a different sense of gender and things. Why d’you want us to go with you to talk to the elves? No need to act so antsy about it, Ced.”

            “Well yes, of course.” Cedric hastily tied his hair in a loose ponytail. “Sorry, don’t know why I’m so batty.” He paused, He bit his lip: no lipstick today. His hands had been shaking too much, in the morning. He wasn’t as brave as he thought.

            Zoe shifted as she leaned further off of the couch, Imogen putting an arm around her shoulder. “Cedric,” she said slowly, “What is it?”

            Something in Cedric’s chest tightened. “I know that-- that this year will end soon, thank Merlin, and we all have loads going on, and I’ve been a shit friend, but--but you’re my best mates, and writing this article...it means a lot to me. And I think...with what I told you a while ago--”

            “A month and a half ago--”

            “Fine,” Cedric huffed, smiling all the same at Bertie’s stubbornness. “Fine, it’s been a month and a half, and I thought I would feel better? Talking about it? But I just ended up in my room even more. And I don’t want to do that again. So...would you all come with me to interview some house-elves and brownies? It’s weird, but they’ve all helped a lot with, er, feeling alright about everything.”

            Zoe nodded, her voice steady and clear. “We can help you ask questions and things, get a lot of responses. And then afterwards,” she said, her voice turning sharp, “You’re helping me study for Healing exams.”

            Cedric watched as Bertie added, “Yeah, I’ll go, I can ask them about their pudding recipes,” and Imogen muttered to herself about medical care they may or may not receive, and he felt so grateful he barely managed a thank you. All choked up. Cedric sighed as he rose from the armchair. He was tired of listening too hard to his own voice, of staring too intently at the chipped green nail polish on his fingers, of offering delayed apologies whenever he bumped into someone in the library. He was tired of staring at the ceiling, of lying on his bed until his legs felt numb.

            “Zoe,” Cedric said as they started on their way to the kitchens. “What I wanted to ask before--”

            “Oh, right! Yeah, what is it?”

            “I just-- how did you figure things out, in third year?”

            “Mum and Dad were really cool with it,” Zoe said after a moment. “And over winter break, fifth year, I remember...we were in Diagon Alley, and this old witch looked at me on the line for robe adjustments. She had the most awful, delightful wheezy laughter I’ve ever heard, and she said that I looked just like her granddaughter, invited me over for the family dinner and everything.” Her smile grew more serious. “I mean, it’s not easy--but you’ll get there. You will.” She stopped their walk, and kissed his forehead so gently that he hardly felt it. But he did. He did feel it, and that made all the difference.

           “Thanks, Zoe.”

           “I’ve got your back, Ced. The whole bloody House has your back.”

           “Abso-fucking-lutely,” Bertie interrupted, loud, nasally voice echoing in the hallway. “But now that you’re done—are you done, Ced? Alright, now that we’re done with that, can I just say how bloody tired I am of Sprout telling me that becoming a baker is ‘wasting my Transfiguration potential?’”

            “She keeps telling you that?”  

            “Yeah,” Bertie grumbled to Cedric’s raised eyebrow as they rounded a corner. She looked a bit like a small, squat owl most of the time, big glasses, short, curly reddish hair, and now she looked like her feathers had been ruffled. “She keeps wanting me to be a professor, or go into the Ministry, or whatever other shite she can think of. Like, I know that I’m good at Transfiguration, I’m fantastic at it actually, and I have no clue what I’ll actually end up doing, but baking is what I love to do, and I finally have ideas about it, and the fact that Sprout insists and insists—“

            “It’s bullocks,” Zoe declared. “You’re going to be amazing at whatever you do, we all know this. I love Pomona, but she can be as pushy as my gran.” Zoe pitched her voice slightly higher, with the faint lilt that Sprout always had in her bright, cheerful voice. “‘What about studying a kind of Healing that specializes in treating Unforgivable curses?’ As if I hadn’t thought of that already. I want to Heal magical creatures, if only she’d listen—“

            “She wants the best for us,” Imogen said, slightly defensively as they walked down the stairs to get to the kitchen entrance. Cedric privately agreed: Professor Sprout had given everyone in Hufflepuff a box of sugar mice on the first day, and she had been the first professor who made him feel valued, like he was worth something outside of an ‘O for Outstanding.’

            Imogen continued before Zoe or Bertie could interrupt her. “Pomona can be…well, Pomona, but you can’t deny that she’s a brilliant professor, and that she has connections all over the Wizarding World. I want to practice Healing in Nigeria where, you know, half of my family lives, and Pomona got me in touch with one of the leading Healing centers in Lagos! She knows the woman running the center, they met at a botanist retreat in Australia or something. Bloody incredible, she is.”

            “Sprout does know at least a million people,” Zoe conceded. “And you, Mo,” she added, kissing Imogen’s cheek, “are going to be the best Healer the world’s ever seen. Besides me, of course.”

             Imogen smiled shyly, ducking her head.

             Bertie scoffed good-naturedly. “Lovebirds,” she muttered under her breath as Zoe glowered at her.

             “I’m thinking about becoming more involved with _The Quibbler_ , and Professor Sprout’s been really understanding with the switch and everything,” Cedric added, ignoring Bertie’s raised finger and Zoe’s huff. “At first I thought I’d like to be an Auror, you know, keep people safe, but after this year…who can trust any branch of the Ministry? Anyway, Pomona’s helped me draft a letter to Lovegood about expanding my role in his paper, all that.”

             “Cedric Diggory, a journalist!” Imogen laughed, not unkindly. “You’ll be a regular Clark Kent in no time, I can see it.”

             “Dunno who that is, but thanks,” Cedric grinned.

              Imogen and Bertie gasped.

             “You don’t even know who Superman is?” Imogen demanded in askance. “I forgot how daft you were! It really has been too long!”

             “’S why the Wizarding World is so fucked,” Bertie added, finger wagging even more aggressively, like a very small talon about to strike. “You don’t know about telephones, don’t know about the solar system, don’t know who bloody Superman is—“

             “Hey, neither of you know how moving photographs work, or about wandless magic, or about Wilma the Wild-Hearted Wondrous Witch, I wouldn’t talk.”

             “Exactly, Zoe,” Cedric said. “Look, I admit it, we could all stand to learn more from one another—why do we still have such a restrictive Statute of Secrecy?—but could we save this for another time? Before the interviews, I’d like some tea and biscuits.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, er, forgot about lunch.”

             Bertie stood immediately, eyebrow raised. “You really are lost without us.”

             “Like a puppy,” Imogen added as she rose as well, grin crinkling her amber eyes.

             “Or a baby flobberworm,” Zoe said as they reached the pear painting.

             “Sod off, all of you,” Cedric laughed, as his stomach growled embarrassingly loudly. His friends all teased him, of course, but as they stood in front of the entrance to the kitchens, he realized that he had been smiling the whole way there. It had taken him long enough, but Cedric didn’t mind as much: he felt his cheeks ache, he shoved Bertie’s shoulder as she teased him, he laughed as Imogen tickled the pear in the painting, and he looked right at Zoe, who beamed back at him. It was so ordinary, these friendships, their teasing, their meandering talks, this trip to get tea and biscuits. Cedric didn’t feel like himself, not completely, but for the first time all year, he felt safe.

             “Did you find those books illuminating?” Professor Firenze asked him the next day after class. Sleepy sunlight poured through the open windows of the musty room.

             “Yes, they were very informative,” Cedric said, and promptly returned _Stallions, Mares, and More in_ _Centaur Society: A Fluid Hierarchy_ , along with _Farnok and Ulnast, or, An Incredible True Wartime Story of Goblin Love and Friendship,_ along with, _“Sir, I Gave The Children Blue Ribbons and Pink Jumpers:” Early House-Elf Conceptions of Wizarding Society,_ and, finally, _Skull-crusher or Rock-thrower? (Giants, Gender, and Power)._

             “It was a lot to read,” Cedric added as Professor Firenze carefully inspected the books for signs of damage. “But they were all useful and interesting in their own ways.”

             “Yes, I should think so,” Professor Firenze murmured absently as he finished his examination. “I had to ask your librarian access into the Restricted Section.” Professor Firenze’s voice remained light, but he leveled his cool gaze at Cedric. “Some of these books were not so easy to access: for one reason or another, many of these were kept hidden from ordinary view. I hope that all of this effort was worth it.”

             “Certainly!” Cedric burst out. “Yes, of course these books were worth it. I’m sorry for the trouble it caused you, though Madame Pince owes me a few favors ever since I’d caught her reading…well. Unsavory materials of her own. Anyway. Thank you, Professor.”

            “No need to call me that,” Professor Firenze replied mildly, long tail swishing idly in the stuffy room. “I have no use for your human affixations.”

            “Alright,” Cedric said, and yesterday had been a good day, and today was a good day, and he remembered Zoe’s kiss on his forehead. “Thank you, Firenze.” He could be brave. He was brave. “All of this research has been…immensely helpful for me. I—well. I’ve been a bit of a mess lately, and these books help make sense of things.”

           “I am glad to hear that,” Firenze said, in that same even tone. “I should have other books ready for you in three days’ time.”

           “Thank you.”

           “Goodbye, Cedric Diggory.”

            There was the faintest trace of a smile on Firenze’s smooth face. Cedric grinned back, and then he was off to meet with Luna and Fitzherbert and Ethel and a few others to discuss _The Quibbler’s_ upcoming piece, and after that he was going to meet Cho for tea for the first time in ages.  Nothing new, but as Cedric descended the narrow staircase, he counted every step, and he wiped the sweat off of his forehead. He felt a fierce ache swell in his chest: Umbridge and the Ministry and Voldemort himself couldn’t stop him from asking Awhina about the dresses she liked to wear, from laughing with Zoe after poking himself in the eye with her eyeliner, from asking Boots about feeling something in-between, from sending in the final draft of the piece that, with any luck, would make it to the front page of _The Quibbler_ , and, with any luck, would take Hogwarts by storm before summer hit. He wasn’t going to stay in his room any longer: Cedric Diggory was going to be brave. Cedric Diggory was going to fight back. Cedric Diggory was going to be himself.

THIRTY

            “Oh hi, Harry. That wasn’t such a bad exam, yeah? Especially for Binns. Did you put down ‘The Great Dragon Gold Hunt of 1316’ for question 32? I put it because I’d read in my notes last night that—“

            “Parvati, I…haven’t slept in maybe two days, I have no idea what I answered for most of this OWL.”

            “Right, I forgot: Granger’s the smart one.”   

            “Oi, I’m not daft—“

            “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? I’ll have to look at the teacups with Lav to find out for sure—“

            “Sod off.”

            “That would defeat the purpose of wanting to chat with me, doesn’t it? What d’you want, anyway?”

            “I’ve been writing to my neighbor from back home, and she’s Punjabi, and I wanted—“

            “Harry, you’re cute when you stutter, but please spit it out. I’ve got to meet Lav and Alicia and Katie for drinks—“

            “D’you know how to make—I’ll say it wrong, but d’you know how to make palada pradhaman?”

            “No, what’s that?”

            “Oh. Well, it’s a dessert made in Kerala, usually for festivals in…autumn, I think? But I’ve been thinking—Mrs. Figg’s been sending me all sorts of food and I thought it’d be nice to make her something. Found a mention of it in a book I’ve been reading. I’m not much of a cook, but I thought—“

            “Aren’t you a sweetheart. Oh don’t look so grumpy, I really mean it. Sorry, I don’t know what that dish is—we’re from Andhra, and I don’t know much of the food and things outside of the state. I could ask around, if you’d like?”

            “That would be nice, if you don’t mind.”

            “’Course.”

            “Thanks, Parvati.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            “…Don’t you have Hogsmeade to get to?”

            “Oh right, well. I just thought I’d ask: do you have any family in India?”

            “No. No, it’s just my mum’s side that’s left, far as I know.”

            “That’s awful.”

            “’S not so bad. I have my godfather. He’s—he’s the best family I have.”

            “That’s good at least. Sometimes I wish my family wasn’t so large—so many annoying relatives, so few cool ones. Well, that’s not quite true, and—oh, sorry, Harry, that was a stupid thing to say.”

             “…It’s fine. Not like I haven’t heard worse. My family’s bloody flea-sized, but I have Sirius, and that’s what matters.”

            “Of course. Well, er, see you later, Harry.”

            “Bye, Parvati.”

THIRTY-ONE

                        _Dear Dolores:_

_Your list has been received and reviewed accordingly. I must admit, I remain hesitant to use it in any substantial way: there are many risks to undertaking such a project, you must understand. It cannot be denied, however, that you have done Hogwarts and the Ministry a great service. This information will only keep the school safer, its students content knowing that the Ministry has their best interests at heart. Nothing is secret between us and them, a great comfort to us all._

_In the interest of prudence, the list of soulmates will remain strictly confidential knowledge for now. Should we have further use for it, I will certainly let you know. The Chang girl, of course, must be closely watched, along with all of Potter’s other associates._

_I almost forgot: have you had need of an elf or two? We have a few working on keeping the loos in order, filing old records, that sort of thing. Let us know if you’d like us to give you one: you deserve to relax after such difficult work._

_You deserve a promotion, after all of the effort you’ve put into making Hogwarts the institution it was always meant to be. We will discuss your future at the Ministry in due time._

_Best,_

_Cornelius Fudge_

 

THIRTY-TWO

                        For the first time in his long, long life, Kreacher did not feel sad or fearful when he left The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. In previous trips out of the master and mistress’s house he would be jittery, reciting the items he needed to collect and the packages he should deliver in an anxious fervor, struggling to commit the often-long list to memory. He would be profoundly relieved when he would arrive back in the manor, and Master or Mistress would pat his head and tell him, “Good job, Kreacher,” before continuing their very important business.

            This time, in the faint drizzle, in the waning of the altogether dull, damp day, Kreacher did not want to return home. He breathed in the humid air. Yes: he was glad to be out. He was glad of it.   

            Master Sirius—Kreacher’s teeth gnashed. He hated calling him that. He did not deserve the title. Still, years and years of habit grinded through Kreacher’s head, and he forced himself to calm down. He could not, however, help a brief, craggy grin from stretching across his wizened face. Master Sirius Black had told him to leave, so Kreacher left. He followed orders precisely and perfectly. Master and Mistress would be proud.

            Kreacher could go anywhere—Master Sirius had not been specific in his instructions—but his magic knew exactly where to go, what his heart wanted.

            Kreacher glimpsed his reflection in a puddle near the entrance to Mistress Bellatrix’s manor. Long ears—too long, his siblings and his sister used to say—with only a few scraggly white hairs left on his head. Wrinkles, dark eyes that glittered with anticipation, little scars on his chin and neck and many other places. His hands were worn and calloused, his knees permanently bent: you weren’t a real elf until the work showed up on your bones. That’s what Father had told him, when he was young and assigned to simple tasks, like helping Mistress Bellatrix go to sleep.

            She had been difficult to lull into slumber—she would thrash about and shriek like a tiny banshee, but Kreacher wouldn’t mind: under his parents’ watchful eyes, under the ever-present expectations of the Mistress in particular, he would hum an old elfish song his older sibling Lilith had sung to him when it was time to rest, and he would rock her in his thin arms until she quieted, peaceful and still and wondrous. He had felt so proud of himself, so responsible: he remembered, in flickering bursts of memory, cleaning up after Mistress when she had been young herself. House elves age slowly: Kreacher was not strong enough to carry a child until Mistress Bellatrix was born. 

            In those days, before he was a real elf, he was always hungry. Mother and Father would whisper in his too-big ears that having his head patted by Mistress Bellatrix, or receiving a smile from the Mistress or Master was almost the same as being fed, that he should never complain, that he should be eternally stooped and grateful and smiling. Mother in particular smiled brightly and continuously in the presence of Master and Mistress, eyes crinkled, mouth curved and closed, ears drooped low.

            Yet when she was downstairs, in the dark cellars where all of the elves slept, Mother’s face would contort into the fiercest scowls imaginable, teeth bared, fists clenched tight, mouth open wide in near-silent rage. When he was small, Kreacher had believed that she was upset with him, with any number of failures to perform his duties: he would expect her to beat him, even,  as Mistress Bellatrix did, sometimes, when he had forgotten to give her her favorite bauble. Father would reassure him, tell him, “She’s not angry with you,” and leave it at that.

            Young Kreacher, small Kreacher, hungry Kreacher, would wonder why Mother did not just scream, if she was angry. He learned why, of course, over the long years: even whispers in the cellars echoed. By the time Kreacher had reached an age in which he wanted, in rare moments, to scream and scream, by the time Father had died of dragon pox, his voice had already grown so accustomed to the cellar’s acoustics that he did not dare speak above a murmur. Like all of the other elves, Kreacher made sure to keep quiet, to keep his voice low and buried deep within his chest, even as Father’s body was magicked away with the dirt and the dust and the soured food and the stains on the carpet and other inconsequential messes.

       Kreacher had understood Mother then, even though his fear of her remained. He shook his head: she had been angry, and that is why she is gone. She had been foolish. She had hoped.

Master Sirius had left the house in a hurry, a young bird bursting into hasty, furious first flight, and he had left the rest of his pumpkin cake behind. Tears dripping down her face, Mistress had shouted at Mother to take it all away, to clean it up, to curse Master Sirius to ruin.

            Mother had stared after Master Sirius, something cold and hollow in her face. She had always liked him best-- they were not supposed to have favorites, but Kreacher would hear them talking late at night, when Master Sirius was home from school. They were always talking of secret plans, the same kind of anger burning in their voices.

“I promise,” Kreacher had heard Master Sirius hiss in his room the week before he left for good, the door slightly ajar. “Look, I have the clothes right here, just-- “ his voice had broken. “Just...please. Help me, Dot, and I’ll help you.”

            Mother had whispered back, “Yes, Master Sirius, I will helps you,” voice betraying a stark excitement, a kindled fervor.

            A week later, Master Sirius had left in a hurry. “Fine!” he had yelled, fists pounding the table, eyes wet. “Fine, if you want me gone, I’ll bloody go! Fuck you all.” He had risen abruptly, shaking all over. “I have a real family. I have a real family, and I’m never coming back.”

He had left without any of the bags Mother had packed for him. Master Sirius had forgotten all of the clothes he had promised to give them.

            “Do it,” Mistress had snarled, spit hitting Mother’s cheek. “Clean up this mess. Ungrateful, foul, waste of a son--”

            Mother had looked at Mistress, and she did not wipe her face. She did not smile. “I will not.”

            “What?” Mistress had roared, face red, hand raised. “What did you say?”

            “I will not!” Mother had screamed, a howl torn from her throat, the sound louder than Mistress, louder even than Master Sirius.. “I will not! I will not, I will not, I will not--!”

            Mistress had slapped Mother hard, and Mother had crumpled to the floor, still screaming, still sobbing.

            In the end, it was not Mistress who had burned Master Sirius from the family tree.

            Kreacher had watched Mother do it, in the dim light of the narrow hallway.

            “My son,” she had said, voice ragged and rasping in the dark. She took his hand: Kreacher had tried not to flinch. “My son, I am going now.”

            “Mother, be quiet--”

            She glared at the fresh burn where Master Sirius’s face had once been. Her finger traced the blackened mark. “I am going.”

            Kreacher saw, too late, that she had one of Master Sirius’s scarves wrapped around her wrist. “Mother, he did not-- he did not give it to you-- “

            “I will see you again. I will return, and we will all leave together.”

            “Mother--”

            A sharp blow to the face. When Kreacher woke, head pounding, Mother was gone.

            His memory failed him, in this instance: Kreacher was sure, looking back, that Mother had used his other name, the name that only the other elves had called him, in a rare moment when they were alone. He was sure that Mother had called him by his second name before she said goodbye. Kreacher shook his head and continued his slow, arthritic walk to Mistress Bellatrix's manner: he did not remember his other name, what Mother would call his real name. He did not remember, not anymore. No one had called him by his other name in so long. A whispered word hummed in his ears, reverberating in his chest....it didn't matter now. That name had faded from his lips, from his mind: it was not his. Nothing was ever his. 

            The morning after Mother had left, Mistress had told him that Mother had tried to escape, that she had been disposed of, that she had suffered a worthy punishment for her crime.

            Kreacher did not know where Mother was, but he did not see her again, and she did not come back.

            Kreacher had stayed. Kreacher had lived in that house for years and years, and Kreacher had lived longer than them all, longer than Mother and Father and his siblings and his sister, longer than Master and Mistress. Kreacher was not hungry now. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was not what it once was, thanks to Master Sirius’s filthy habits, but he was free to eat whatever he chose, as long as Master Sirius did not order him otherwise. He had trouble fitting into his usual pillowcase, his stomach more padded than Mother and Father’s had ever been.

            Kreacher swallowed a sudden lump in his throat as he walked up the long pathway to Mistress Bellatrix’s manor: Master Regulus would give him his extra string beans and beef and pudding after dinner, whenever he could. Master Regulus had always been curious, always had questions for him: “How many ice creams does Mummy give you when you’re good?” Master Regulus had asked when he was younger, barely taller than Kreacher himself. “Why d’you and your family live down there?” Master Regulus had asked a few years later, sullen and bored on his third winter break. _“Tell Kreacher that I am finally achieving something great, will you?”_ Master Regulus had written in a letter for the family during his final year at Hogwarts. Then, finally, the question that haunted Kreacher every night: “Can you keep a secret?”  

            Master Sirius and Master Regulus were bound by an old magic—Kreacher did not know what it was, but it was easy to sense. Yet Master Sirius did not ask Kreacher any questions. Master Sirius did not care to know who had burned his little portrait on the family tree. Master Sirius barely looked at him.

            Master Sirius had also told him to leave.

            Kreacher coughed a laugh as he hobbled up the steps to Mistress Bellatrix’s manor. Perhaps the brothers were more similar than Kreacher had initially believed: Master Regulus had wanted him to leave, too.

            Soon, Master Sirius would be the one who was leaving. The house would finally be free of him, and Kreacher would be alone in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and Kreacher would finally be what Mother and Master Regulus had always wanted him to be: happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's here!! another long overdue update!! thank you all so much for sticking with this mess of a fic, it means so much to me. :') i hope you're all doing ok, sending you good vibes. 
> 
> this update has quite a bit of table-setting for things to come, but i hope the payoff will be worth it. feel free to voice critiques about pacing and structure anytime lol. 
> 
> major shoutout to withswords for being a kickass person, friend, and writer, who helped me immensely with cedric's bit in particular. check out their fics if you're into wrestling to any degree. 
> 
> that being said, if i've fucked up any of the portrayals here, let me know! i will edit and fix the fic accordingly. 
> 
> also: this year's going to be particularly busy for me, so updates will not be very frequent, as you might have guessed. that being said, this fic may be updated slowly, but it WILL be updated!
> 
> ALSO: that song Awhina listens is THIS 80'S NEW ZEALAND JAM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2u7yHD_d-o 
> 
> she's a kiwi but she goes to Hogwarts because, idk, it offers the programs she wants, maybe her parents work in the UK or something. 
> 
> ALSO ALSO: for those of you wondering, "are harry, cedric, and cho going to interact with each other ever again?" don't worry, they definitely will! this ship is gonna keep on sailing. :)
> 
> Edit 9/30/17: Just added a couple of things to Kreacher's segment, about house elf lifespans and his other name. Hope it makes sense.


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